Shaky Ground
by LatteLemon
Summary: Rock 'n' roll is sexuality personified. It is attitude. It is all the things that your parents told you not to do. It's the freedom to express yourself. It's being alive. Only multi-platinum, award-winning rocker Edward Cullen is anything but until he meets Bella Swan. A collaboration fic from LatteCoug and Carson1 in celebration of MizzezPattinson's graduation. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

In celebration of MizzezPattinson finishing her nursing degree, LatteCoug and CarLemon (AKA Cars1) decided a fic collaboration was in order.

Our dear friend, this is for you. You've worked so hard and persevered through every bump thrown in your path. Congratulations on your success!

We hope you enjoy this journey as much as we enjoyed bringing it to you. XO

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 1<strong>_

**_There was a time I thought we were bulletproof, but then things happened and I came to the realization that I had to play every gig as if it was my last show. You have to start thinking that way, because you never know what's going to happen next. - Joe Perry_**

**_Edward_**

"Don't you want more?" My voice sounds disembodied, dry, and raspy, like I'm a seventy-five-year-old chain smoker who doesn't give a shit about what a lifetime of nicotine and other assorted carcinogens has done to his lungs.

"Mmm... Love the sound of your voice. You're so fucking hot." It's a slurred and intoxicated whisper against my neck. Gin and desperation roll off of her in waves. She licks the curved chaos of ink snaking down my shoulder and grinds her skinny, naked body against mine. I shudder at the feel of skin and bones against my weary body. Clearly misreading my reaction, she pushes her tits against me, breathing in my ear. "Touch me, Eddie."

"I always want more. So do you." Jasper's murmured voice drifts to me from somewhere far away. I lean back against the massive couch, trying to open my eyes in an attempt to find him. It's a monumental task. I feel like I'm floating in a dream or a nightmare; it's really hard to tell which. I'm stuck somewhere between reality and fucked up fantasy.

"Hmm... Name's Edward," I mumble as she grinds away chanting, "Eddie, Eddie, Eddie."

I roll my neck in the direction I think Jasper's voice came from, making a feeble attempt to brush away the hand flattening against my stomach, drifting south. I can feel her broken nails scratching over my hip, fumbling as she attempts to unhook my leather belt.

Her hot, liquor-laced breath fans over my exposed chest, her tongue lazily gliding along the tatt that covers my pec. It would probably be a sensual experience if she wasn't completely trashed and gave a shit about me. She's just here because I'm Edward-Fucking-Cullen and she wants to say she fucked me.

Somehow, I manage to open my eyes. Through an intoxicated haze, I can make out Jasper—at least I think it's him—bent over a coffee table, slowly moving his face along a mirrored surface. I lift the dead weight of the bottle of Jack to my lips, spilling some of the amber liquid over the shoulder of the groupie currently sprawled across my lap. I welcome the burn as the warm liquid hits my throat.

Muted light filters in from the gaps in the curtains, catching the glare from the mirror and splaying prisms of color over Jasper's moving form. He leans back in the chair and lifts his hand to his nose, snorting back any excess he may have missed. He cracks his neck, like he always does when he's finished, and pats his thigh.

It feels like I'm watching in slow motion as a groupie appears seemingly out of nowhere like an apparition and floats to his lap, immediately wrapping her arms around his neck and crashing her lips to his.

I shut my eyes, guiding the heavy bottle back to my lips, hoping the magic liquid will block everything out. It hurts to swallow. My throat feels like it's on fire. I wonder how much is enough to numb the pain.

"No. I mean more."

"I've got more right here, man." Above the booming bass filling the room and pounding in my head, I hear the sound of the chair scraping across the hardwood floor as the room spins.

Shuffled feet make their way across the room. I hear a crash, broken glass hitting the floor, and then a fit of giggling.

"I fell. Kiss it better, Jazz." That high-pitched voice actually hurts my ears. It's like nails on a goddamn chalkboard.

I feel the opulent couch dip beside me and open one eye to find him leaning against me. "Mmm... You've got more too, I see. What's your name, sugar?" Jasper gives a lazy grin to the blonde perched in my lap.

"Whatever you want it to be." I try to roll my eyes but it's too much work in my current fucked up state. From the floor, the giggles continue and Jasper laughs, big and boisterous, throwing his head back, reminding me that I am in fact still alive.

The girl on my lap rolls her head back, her bleached-out hair spilling in a tangled mess against my jean covered thighs. Pouring out a stream of Jack over her tits, my tongue lazily follows the trail, pulling her nipple into my mouth. "Mmm... More, but not real. I miss real tits."

"They're tits, man—real, fake, what's the fucking difference?"

"Mmm... More... The difference is more."

Jasper leans over me, cupping her breast in his hand. "Well I like them, sweetheart. Cm'here."

It doesn't take much coaxing to pull her from my lap. She squeals, and I try to make my escape, having to push off the thick cushions more than once to actually get somewhat vertical. The room sways, and I stumble back against the arm of the couch earning another high-pitched giggle from the chick on the floor.

My vision is blurred to the point now that I can only make out shapes— changing, shifting, morphing shapes that seem to deliberately block my path. The music blares on, never relenting from some far away the corner of the penthouse.

I take in the bodies currently grinding together in an erotic, tempting dance. They seem to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Against walls, windows, furniture, molded to the floor. It's like a fucking funhouse in here.

"I'm just gonna..." The world tilts,and my eyes slide shut.

"You're high as a mother-fucking kite, Cullen." Jasper's voice is an echo.

My grip tightens around the neck of the bottle as I step over a pair of seemingly endless long legs pushed into high-heeled fuck-me boots. I register something slicing into my foot, and I welcome the pain. I pause at the mirrored coffee table for longer than I should, my free hand gripping the back of the chair to keep me upright.

I can make out a few piles of pills spread across the table. My head turns to the grand piano where there's a couple of bags open and tipped over, their powdery contents spilling out and reaching for me. I can almost hear them calling my name.

Somewhere in all the haze and drug-induced madness of my currently fucked-up fried brain I know if I take another handful of pills or do another line, it may be my last. The scary part is that somewhere in there, I kind of want it to be.

Through blurry vision, I see the solid mass of muscle that I think is Jake, my security guard and one of the only real friends I have left on the planet. Arms crossed, standing at the ready in the hall. He's watching, judging, ready to step in if I need him to. He shakes his head in my direction, and just like that makes the decision for me.

Leaving Jasper to the squealing groupies, I shuffle my way to the first door I find, push it open and welcome the softness of the mattress as I collapse face first into it.

Welcome to the life of a mother-fucking rockstar.

\m/

"Get up, asshole."

I groan from under the mass of covers and pillows, not moving to the sound of Jake's voice. Maybe he'll go away if I just lay here. Don't move. It hurts to move.

The covers are yanked from me as only Jake can, exposing my bare back to the assault of AC that he's cranked up in the room.

"Fuck, man. Give me a fucking second."

He pulls the blinds across the doors to the terrace, the sun streaming in as my eyes crack open. I made it to another day. Hallejfuckingleuha. My head pounds harder, and I close my eyes waiting for the welcome darkness to descend.

"You look like shit."

He grips my hair, forcing my head back as I fight to blink open my eyes. Even in my fucked-up state I can see the disappointment in his face. He shakes his head, tightening his hand in my hair.

"Is this what you want, huh? This is what you worked so fucking hard for?"

"Fuck off, Jake."

"You're thin as a rail. I think a stiff breeze would blow you over. And you've got an interview at the radio station today. Did you forget about that? Up close and personal and all that shit?"

"Mmm..." It hurts when I try to shake my head. "T'morrow." I try to push him away from me—almost impossible at the best of times let alone trying it after a night like the one I just survived.

"It _is_ tomorrow, idiot."

I groan and close my eyes as he pushes my head forcefully into the pillow. I feel the bed dip with his weight. "This has got to stop, man. you want to be _that _cliché? Musical genius who drank and snorted himself into oblivion?"

"What I don't want is a lecture from you right now." My voice is muffled against the pillow.

"You're better than this, Edward." His voice is quieter, and I manage to turn my head in his direction, opening my eyes.

"Not anymore."

"You are. Why don't you let me check out that rehab place? The one up in Malibu?"He suggests not for the first time.

"Right, 'cause that's not a cliché at all now, is it?"

"They deal with celebrities all the time. They have confidentiality rules and—"

"And what?You want me to sit 'round in a circle and talk about my goddamn feelings like the last time? That's bullshit, man." I groan as the drum band plays on in my head. "Fuck, where's the goddamn Oxy?"

He moves from my vision, and I close my eyes, welcoming the quiet.

I stretch my arm out beside me, my hand making impact with cold, clammy skin. The room spins as I turn my head, my gaze dropping over the waif beside me. I think she might be the giggler from the floor last night, but I'm not sure.

"Shit." I manage to push myself up and lean back against the plush headboard, closing my eyes once more. I don't want to see her half-naked body draped over the rumpled bed. At least I still have my pants on. Little victories amuse me and I try to laugh, but it hurts too much.

My stomach rolls as she groans, lifting her head just off the comforter, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she stares blankly at me. "Mmm... Ready again so soon, handsome?"

In the cruel, harsh light of the morning after, everything is different. Here I am, in the lush penthouse suite at the Fairmont in San Francisco with a strung out junkie, whose name I don't even want to know beside me.

The raccoon eyes are in full force as she clumsily wipes them, leaving more mascara smudged beneath her lashes. "I just need a little something first. Got any smack?" She tries to push herself up and doesn't seem to have the strength to, dissolving back to the bed with a giggle.

I close my eyes, aware of the cottonmouth and the throat that feels like I just swallowed a razor blade.

"Jake?"

I strain to hear him moving around in the ensuite bathroom. I think I doze off right there, leaning up against the headboard with my head feeling like a tire iron has been rammed through it, until ice-cold water rains down over me.

"Jesus, fuck!" My body convulses when I try to push off the bed, glaring at Jake as he stands to the side with the now empty ice bucket. The giggler squeals louder, in hysterics now.

" . Now."He glares at me, just daring me to defy him.

The frigid water drips from my now damp hair as I push off the soaked bed and offer him a smirk. He just shakes his head, his lips curling up into knowing smile. I know I'm forgiven. It's that simple with Jake. It always has been and, if I'm very lucky, it always will be.

I hit him in the solid wall of his chest as I brush by him. "Do something with that, will you?" I tilt my head in the direction of the giggler, and he simply nods. He knows the routine. Wipe her phone, pay her well, and remind her of the confidentiality agreement that she no doubt has forgotten she signed when she was sober and not strung out on whatever lethal cocktail is currently floating around in her system.

"I'm on it." His muttered voice disappears while I drag my sorry ass to the bathroom. I curse as pain shoots up from my foot, and I struggle to remember what the fuck happened last night.

It's not unusual for me to have gaps in time— large blocks of blackness where I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I did or how I got to be in the place I wake up in. I know I am existing on a very thin and unstable line. I've been looking to the bottle to fill up a gaping hole in me. If left unchecked... Its call, its promise to make the pain go away is too strong for me to resist right now.

It's one of the many reasons I'm beyond grateful for Jake. He's the one who keeps me in check, pulling me back to reality after a night of debauchery and excess. Why he hasn't left me is a miracle. But he's here, dealing with what I can't. Vaguely, I can hear the flurry of activity from behind the closed door. He's cleaning up my mess one more time.

The marching band continues in my head as I lean against the cool marble vanity and squint my eyes under the harsh lighting. I hardly recognize the gaunt face staring back at me. Fumbling with the tap, which is harder to figure out than it should be, I finally get the cold water to turn on. I lean over the basin, splashing the water onto my face.

My eyes look dull and lifeless, red-rimmed and sunken with dark bags under them. I can't remember the last time I shaved. The scruff has turned into a wild beard, and it makes me look older. I feel like I'm a thousand or something. I hate myself for admitting that Jake is right. I'm getting too old for this shit. You could easily mistake me for an addict on the street instead of a multi-platinum selling, award-winning rock star who should be on top of the world.

Under the glare and buzz of the fluorescent lights in the luxury of the bathroom that is bigger than my first apartment, it dawns on me that I've just used the word I have always refused to associate with myself. _Addict._

A mumbled, 'Fuck,' falls from my dry mouth.

The bathroom door creaks open and Jake steps into view in the mirror beside me. He'sthe picture of health and life. A sharp contrast to what I know I'm becoming.

"What the fuck are you doing, Edward? If she was here...If she could see you—"

My eyes meet his in the mirror. "Don't go there, man. Just don't."

"I have to."

I glare back at him. "If I piss you off this much, why the fuck do you stick around?"

"You know damn well why. I promised Al—"

"Don't. Don't you dare say her name," I seethe, feeling my jaw set.

He shakes his head in disgust. "Do you think this is what she would have wanted for you?"

We stare at each other in the mirror in a silent standoff, neither one of us wavering.

"Oxy is beside the sink. Drink this." He tosses me a bottle of Vitamin Water—some pink colored shit that looks like Kool-Aid and takes like hell, no doubt. "All of it. Shave and take whatever you need to appear somewhat alive and coherent. We leave for the station in an hour."

I nod, my shaking hands reaching for the pain meds, having to fight with the lid to open it. When I finally do, I pour a handful of pills into my clammy palm, my gaze lifting to meet his in the mirror.

He simply shakes his head and turns for the door. "You're really living the dream, Cullen. Living the dream."

\m/

**_Bella_**

"Got a minute, Boss?"

My eyes pop up from the spreadsheet I've been struggling with to see my assistant, Lauren, poised at my doorway. Grateful for the interruption, I smile.

"Sure. What's up?"

She strides into my office and hands me a sheaf of papers. "We have the final report on the Peterson Dream," she explains, and I nod.

"Oh, good. We really lucked out on that one." I still can't believe that we'd been able to fulfill 10-year-old Simon Peterson's dream of being with his beloved Seattle Seahawks when they won the Super Bowl. The lucky part hadn't been sending Ryan to the Super Bowl—the Seahawks and NFL had been only too cooperative. It was whether Ryan's pancreatic cancer, which had accelerated, would allow him to attend. It had been a race against time.

I scan the report with my usual mixture of pride and sorrow; pride because we were able to provide this for a spunky young boy who sorely deserved it, and sorrow because he had lost his fight with his illness only three weeks after the event. As the Executive Director for _What's Your Dream_, I was more than familiar with the emotions.

Although we'd only been in existence ten years, we'd already fulfilled more than three thousand dreams of boys and girls with terminal or life-threatening illnesses. Since I'd become Director three years ago, we'd doubled the number of chapters; soon, we'd have one in every state.

"His parents were so grateful," Lauren comments, her eyes full of understanding.

I nod again, my brow furrowing as I recall his mother's voice when she'd called to let us know about Ryan's passing. I couldn't help but cry with her over the phone as she'd described his last days, and how happy and thankful he'd been to not only attend the game with his family, but to also have the chance to hold the Lombardi trophy—with the help of a few of his favorite players. It had been all he'd talked about, right up until the end.

Setting the report aside, I take a settling breath and stand, smoothing my black pencil skirt. "Okay, then. Everyone waiting for me, I suppose?" I look at my assistant.

Lauren ticks something off on her clipboard. "Just Angela, of course. But the others are on their way."

We leave my office and Lauren follows me down to one of our smaller meeting rooms. Angela is seated at the table, texting someone furiously. I swear, the girl was born with a phone in her hand.

"You're late," she notes, not looking up. Smirking, I take the seat opposite her. "Happens to the best of us once in a while, Ang," I quip, giving her a look as the rest of our group files in and takes their places.

"Yeah, yeah," she retorts with a sigh, and places her phone on the table. She flips her glossy, straight black hair over her shoulder. Angela Webb is our PR Director and damn good at her job. I'd managed to coax her away from Make A Wish last year, and I constantly thank my lucky stars. She's sharp, tireless, and loyal, and her penchant for punctuality has become legendary.

"So, what do we have this week?" I ask, opening the folder in front of me. I glance up to our Giving Director, Irina Baskov, who sits next to Angela.

"Sixteen dreams were already approved by the Eligibility team this week," she begins, pausing to take a sip of her tea. "But they bumped these seven cases up to us."

I hum in understanding. Although our Eligibility team is responsible for evaluating each request, they only implement the relatively straightforward dreams, such as those for new pets, birthday parties, or basic trips to Hawaii. The more complex requests are sent upstairs where the four of us—Angela, Irina, Mike Newton, our Finance Director, and I—deliberate on the possibilities and appropriateness of the requests.

I skim through the seven cases before sitting back to let Irina take us through each one. Her fingers toy absently with a lock of her silky blonde hair. With her icy blue eyes and stylish navy suit, she looks the epitome of a cold, calculating businesswoman, but underneath her austere demeanor beats a sensitive and compassionate heart.

A twelve-year-old girl with a brain tumor wants an audition with the Moscow Ballet. Hmm, that's a little tricky in the current political climate. However, Irina's cousin is a trainer with the San Francisco ballet…maybe that could work instead. A six-year-old boy from Colorado with a degenerative lung condition wants to score a goal against his favorite hockey star. A ten-year-old boy with MS loves airplanes and dreams of being a pilot; my contact at Alaska Airlines can provide a complete tour, everything from the tarmac to the cockpit. Maybe we can throw in a trip to Disneyland, too.

We work through the cases, discussing the merits of each and formulating initial plans. The faces that peer up at me from the folder look happy and hopeful, but when I read their stories… I glance out the large window at the bright blue sky, blinking back tears. I hate that so many virulent diseases threaten so many young lives. So many futures at many poems and symphonies to be written, or planets and species to discover. One of the children we see here could hold the key to solving the world's greatest problems, but may never get the chance.

Ever since I was fifteen, when I saw what cancer can do to a person, I've wanted to do something about it. Science has never been my forte, so I knew I wouldn't be the one who would find the cures. But I could do something to ease the patients' suffering and bring a little joy to their lives, as well as the lives of their families.

"You okay there, Bella?" I glance up to see Angela's concerned face. We all have our moments when the stories and the kids behind them break through the business-wall we try to keep up during these meetings. Last week it was Lauren, who'd had to excuse herself from taking minutes during the discussion of a six-year-old boy with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, who simply wanted to take his grandfather to Disney World. The grandfather had been an illustrator for some of the Disney movies back in the sixties.

I suddenly become aware that I've brought the discussion to a halt."Yes, I'm fine," I assure her, and nod at Irina. "You were saying?" I smile encouragingly, and she continues, holding the last profile aloft.

"Now, I think this one was sent to you a few days ago, Bella, but I haven't heard your thoughts on it yet," she says, laying the pages down and fanning them out slightly. She takes a breath and slowly lets it out, her eyes never leaving the last page.

"Oh, my," Angela says appreciatively. "He's aged well, hasn't he?"

Knowing what she means, I simply shake my head in amusement as Irina begins talking. "This is Parker Jensen," she begins, indicating the grinning blond boy on the top sheet. "Eleven years old, with leukemia. He lives right here in San Francisco, and his dream is to enjoy a day as a rock star with…" She taps the second photo in the set, and there is a collective intake of breath around the table.

"Edward Cullen?" Mike saysdubiously. "Isn't he a little old for the eleven-year-old crowd?"

"He's not _that_ old," Irina scoffs. "Jeez, Mike. He's only thirty-six. Apparently, Parker idolizes him. He's learning to play the guitar and wants to be just like Cullen when he grows up." Her expression becomes wistful. "And I hope he has the chance."

We're silent for a moment, the thought that Parker may not get a chance to grow up sobering us. Then Angela sighs, a smirk curving her lips. "Well, Parker has excellent taste in music. I don't remember how many Grammys this guy has won, but he's incredible. And when you throw in that _face_…I think spending a day with Edward Cullen would be my dream, too."

Lauren giggles in agreement; Mike simply rolls his eyes at her. "Oh, please. Get over yourselves. You don't see Bella getting all swoony. Besides, when was his last hit? He's never on the radio anymore," he scoffs.

"Bella never gets swoony. And, I heard he has a new album coming out soon," Angela shoots back, peering at him over her chic cat-eye glasses.

"Oh, what—I suppose the money's running out, so he's going to squeeze out something to make the teenage girls and their mothers scream? Then, he'll take his money and run back to wherever aging rock stars go when they retire?"

"What's got into you?" Irina asks him, a frown marring her lovely features. "We deal with celebrities all the time."

He shrugs, seeming to calm a bit. "I just don't think he'd be a good influence, that's all. The kid should idolize someone more worthwhile."

"They can't _all_ want to go to Disneyland, Mike," Angela says dismissively, waving her hand at him. "And Cullen is more than a rock star; he's an artist. At least, he was."

Their sniping fades into the background as my eyes peruse the two pages. Parker is adorable, with bright blue eyes and an infectious grin. And Cullen is…actually, I'm not sure what Cullen is. Handsome seems inadequate when you consider the smoldering green eyes, chiseled jawline, and sensual pout. But, Angela is right; he is so much more than his looks. The complex rhythms and cerebral lyrics that have always characterized his sound set him apart from his contemporaries. His music was a staple during my college years and beyond; in fact, I have dozens of his songs on my playlists now.

But, how wise would it be fulfill this particular dream? Parker's treatments have left him in a fragile state. Is Edward Cullen the type of man who would understand—and respect—that?

I'd started researching him as soon as Irina had sent me the report, but had come up with mixed results so far. His older interviews revealed an intelligent, whimsical mind that appealed to me greatly. He sounded like someone I'd love to sit with for a beer and conversation. His more recent comments in the press, however, had sounded so…angry. Arrogance and negligence had seemingly replaced the whimsy and playfulness. Maybe he has succumbed to the pampered celebrity lifestyle, or maybe it was just a bad day. Who knew?

I flip the promo photograph over, focusing on the more recent paparazzi photos that Irina included in the packet. The photos captured him leaving a club with his entourage. He was obviously annoyed and probably drunk. But more than that, there was something in his eyes…something familiar in that glazed stare…

I manage to suppress a shudder when a particularly unpleasant memory leaps to mind; a memory of screamed threats, desperate begging, and a final, heartbreaking goodbye. My ex, Paul, had hid his addiction for months before finally slipping up. Cocaine had been his drug of choice. Then, after more months of pleading and empty promises of rehab, he'd left me no choice.

And there would be no going back.

"Bella? What do you think?"

My attention snaps back to the here and now, and I see all eyes trained on me. I take a deep breath to compose myself, and lock the past where it belongs—in the past.

"Actually, Mike has a good point," I begin, ignoring how he puffs up at my comment. "I'm not sure if exposing a young boy to this…_scene_…is a good idea. You know, the whole 'sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll' thing." I hold up a hand when I see Irina getting defensive. "I know—it's a stereotype. But,I'm honestly concerned about why Cullen dropped out of sight for so long. Was he just sitting around on his ass all this time? Was he in rehab? Or was he off on some spiritual journey meditating with the Dalai Lama or something?" I pause and thoughtfully tap the photos with my fingertips."All that aside, though, granting wishes is our mission. If we can make this happen, under the right terms, we should. So, let's explore it."

Mike deflates with my last statement, while the other three nod approvingly. I have my own suspicions as to why Irina agrees so quickly—she's eyeing his photo like he's a triple-decker hot fudge sundae—but I keep them to myself.

"Okay, then, I'll set up a meeting with his team to discuss the possibilities," she says with a firm nod, her blonde bob swaying with the movement. We quickly adjourn and I exit the room, pretending not to hear Mike calling my name. I'm not in the mood for whatever he wants to say, especially if he was going to take advantage of my agreeing with him earlier to ask me out. I've turned him down a half-dozen times in as many months—you'd think he'd take the hint, but no. If he reported to me instead of directly to the Board, I'd have a sure-fire reason for turning him down. In lieu of that, I've learned to avoid being caught after meetings or on elevators with him, where it's easier for him to muster up the courage to ask again.

I wave goodnight to Lauren and return to my office. Feeling unsettled, I stand in front of the small mirror mounted behind my door recalling Angela's words—Bella never gets swoony. I tuck a stray hair back into my perfect chignon and adjust the collar of my crisp cotton blouse. Yep—'swoony' is definitely not a word I subscribe to, not even for fuck-hot rockstars.

On a whim, I swiftly take my hair down, leaving it tousled about my shoulders, and undo another button on my blouse. Cocking a shoulder, I squint at my reflection and pucker my lips like some type of centerfold. There…_that_ girl would do 'swoony.' But I can only hold the pose for a second before I burst out laughing at myself. Yeah, Bella, you're a sex kitten if ever there was one, I think sarcastically as I redo my button and hurriedly pull my hair back into a ponytail. Much better.

Sitting at my desk, I pull Cullen's promo photo out of the file and stare at it. Peering out from beneath a mop of unruly reddish-brown hair, those green eyes seem to leap off the page to see right through me. It's disquieting. Suddenly, the only word I can think of to describe Edward Cullen is…_dangerous_…in more ways than one.

But how can I say no when he's a little boy's heart's desire?

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter end notes:<strong>_

Up next, Bella listens in on a revealing interview.

Let us know what you think. Reviews make rock stars happy.

Twitter: LatteCoug, CarLemon


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all those reading and reviewing, and a special thanks to the lovely FicSisters for featuring us last week. Much love to all. Let's check in with these two. Mandy, this is for you.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

"_You see, rock and roll isn't a career or hobby - it's a life force. It's something very essential."—__The Edge_

_**Edward**_

"Good afternoon, sunshine." Emmett, my brother, equally an annoyance and an inspiration, smirks at me from beside the elevator on the penthouse floor of the Fairmont. He looks awake and alive—two things I know I'm struggling with.

"Fuck off, Emmett. Rose... always a pleasure." Rose, Emmett's fiancée of the last million years or so, rolls her eyes at me as I limp my way over to them and lean against the wall beside the elevator. They both came to the standing room only acoustic session I put on last night at The Fillmore, despite Emmett having a race this weekend.

My brother, who never really wanted to grow up, is living his dream, racing on the NASCAR circuit much to the horror of my parents. My mother claims that the pair of us are responsible for her ever-greying hair.

I close my eyes, thankful that the pounding in my head at least has been reduced to a dull, slow ache, the Oxy doing its job once more.

"Rough night, bro?" Emmett asks, the familiar concern I always hear evident in his voice.

"You could say that."

"Well, we had a great night. Took full advantage of that Jacuzzi, if you know what I mean." I crack an eye open with a laugh, and Emmett wags his brows. Rose hits him in the arm. "Ow! Babe, that hurt."

"What's with the limp?" Rose asks in an attempt to change the subject, nodding her head at my leg.

"Fuck if I know. I woke up with the bottom of my foot sliced. It hurts like a son of a bitch."

"I took a broken piece of glass out of your foot last night—you know? After one of the priceless vases broke, and you passed out? I did spray some Polysporin on it if that helps, Rose," Jake explains as he joins us at the elevator, looking hulking, menacing, and ready to kick anyone who gets within reach of me.

"Huh." I struggle to try to remember when that happened, but it hurts too much to recall anything after the concert. _The concert _I remember. I always do. Despite my trending habit of indulging _after_ a gig, I never do before one. I want to savor the adrenaline, the high that feeds me, the electricity of the crowd. It lets me get lost in a place where I can't feel the pain anymore. It's unlike any combination of drugs or alcohol you can find. Every single time I step on a stage it fuels my creativity, makes me want to test the boundaries, and give the screaming fans more.

The problem is, inevitably, that high fades and I'm left with a gaping hole once more, one I've been trying desperately to fill since the accident two years ago that changed everything.

Rose frowns at me and lifts a brow, running her fingers through her long blonde hair. "As much as I don't want to look at your feet or any other part of your disgusting anatomy, I think I should. It might be infected with God only knows what disease you brought home with you last night. Are your tetanus shots up to date?" She can't turn off the concern that seems instinctual of being a nurse even if she wanted to.

Emmett met Rose when one of his early racing accidents sent him to the ER. A dislocated shoulder and a concussion led to a romance for the ages. She resisted him for a very long time. But, if there's one thing Emmett doesn't like, it's hearing the word, "No." A challenge only makes him try harder and really, I don't know why she held out as long as she did. It was obvious to everyone they were crazy about each other.

"Probably not. But I'm sure it's fine, nurse Rosie." She grimaces at the nickname, and I smirk at her in response.

"Mhmm. That's what they all say until a limb needs to be amputated."

"Bro? Let her take a look." Emmett nudges me in the shoulder.

I nod slowly, closing my eyes again as I let the wall support my weight. "Let me get this damn interview over first."

"Deal."

The elevator dings, and Jake gives it a sweep before letting us in. "There's a couple of hundred fans outside. We can go out there and you can play nice, or I can get James to move the Hummer around to the service entrance," Jake offers.

He passes me my Ray Bans, and I gratefully slide them on. Thank fuck. The lights feel like they are burning through my retinas. I lean against the mirrored wall of the elevator, trying hard not to look at my reflection. I don't think I'll like what's staring back at me.

"Service entrance."

"Dude, they would love to see you. You've been MIA forever, and last night you were on fire at the concert. You lit it up, man. Come on. Sign a few boobs and get some brownie points," Emmett suggests as the elevator starts its descent.

"What are you, my fucking manager now?" I scowl at him as my stomach bottoms out with the movement of the elevator.

Emmett is actually right in this instance, though I would never admit to him. My album is due to drop in a month, and I've been relatively absent for almost two years until a few weeks ago when the marketing engine that is my record label kicked into gear.

I'm still not sure if I'm ready for the insanity that accompanies an album release and a world tour, but I also can't deny that I miss the adrenaline and the rush. I miss the real fans who know every single lyric and belt them out as if they are a part of their soul. But right now, my body needs rest and caffeine. I think I may collapse if I have to stand and sign autographs for any length of time. My schedule is absolutely insane for the foreseeable future, and there will be plenty of time for autograph signing, so I take the easy way out.

"Service. Entrance."

\m/

Jake passes me the largest take-out cup of coffee I've ever seen as we wait to be ushered into the bowels of the radio station. After dropping Emmett and Rose at their sprawling home in Sea Cliff, we survived the madness of the bulging crowd in front of the station, James expertly navigating the Hummer around to the back entrance.

Jake weaved me through the throngs, held back by a metal barrier. They were satisfied with a passing glimpse and a few waves as I ducked through the back door. My hearing, which has taken a beating from years of touring, however may not survive. Their high-pitched screams are ear-shattering, and after almost fifteen years of doing this, I don't think I'll ever get used to the reaction. I don't want to either.

Jake tosses me a sceptical look while I blow across the top of the Styrofoam cup. "I've got this, Jake. You know I always give good interviews. Stop worrying."

"I know. It's just you were pretty fucked up last night, man. I don't know how you're upright. And Jasper isn't here yet." I take a much-needed sip of coffee, the caffeine slowly working its way into my system. Fuck that tastes awful. Awful, but necessary.

"I'm fine. You know me. I always bounce back." He nods, but doesn't look convinced. I lift the cup to him. "It's nothing that caffeine can't fix." The click of the door has him moving in front me, ever the protector.

The door to the waiting area opens and the cute intern we saw earlier peeks her head into the room, motioning for me to join her. She's all flustered and wide-eyed, her gaze darting along my t-shirt and lower as she clutches a clipboard to her chest. "We're ready for you, Mr. Cullen." Her voice is all timid and awe-struck, the fingers of her free hand nervously twirling a long strand of her bottled red hair.

I chuckle at Jake who remains intimidating, patting him on the shoulder before lifting my acoustic and moving to the door.

"You're worse than a mother-fucking hen. I've got this, Jake."

He moves in-step beside me and behind my sunglasses, I keep my eyes on the hot piece of ass sashaying in front of me as she leads us down the hall to the broadcast booth. She's got the typical short miniskirt on that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, a tight shirt revealing just about everything she owns, and blood red high heels it looks like she's just figuring out how to walk in. It's amusing if nothing else.

We wait in the hallway, and I gaze up at the "On Air" sign as I try to get into interview mode. What I said to Jake is absolutely true. I do eventually bounce back from a night of debauchery. It's always been that way for me since I started drinking in high school, and it's stuck with me.

Of course back then, it was tame—a few shots of gin or rum stolen from my parent's liquor cabinet. If we were really feeling rebellious, a shared bottle of vodka between us all before a school dance. Yeah, we thought we were badass. Inevitably, my group of friends would all end up puking their guts out in the gym bathroom and be out of commission for the weekend. I would be totally fine, save for the headache that was easily cured.

That trait has stayed with me. Unlike a lot of other musicians I know, I can take or leave the booze and drugs. It's a choice I make, not a requirement. These days, I stick with Jack or vodka, only occasionally delving into whatever drug of choice may be floating around on any typical evening. Nights like last night, when I indulge in a few lines are actually rare for me. I hadn't done coke for almost two months before last night, and I didn't miss it or crave it one bit during that time. Yesterday, I simply did it because it was there, and I felt like numbing the pain.

It's shocking how easy it is to get whatever you want whenever you want it—illegal or otherwise when you have money, fame, and power. Post-concert, the band's booze rider alone would probably kill most people. Which is why I know how simple it would be to take the darker road and descend into full-blown addiction. That's not me. I know when to stop. But unfortunately, many don't. I've seen the unthinkable happen to a lot of people—guys I idolize, roadies, girlfriends, members of my own band, the list is endless.

Still, I know I'm walking a fine and very dangerous line. Jake seems to think I've been lucky and that eventually the excess, the decadence will catch up to me. For now, I'm content to enjoy my Jack and have a hell of a good time doing it. I don't _need_ the drugs or the liquor to function. Don't crave it. Refuse to sacrifice my playing because of it, and I think that is what separates me from the real addicts.

The "On Air' sign flicks off, the door to the studio opens, and my gaze falls to the beautiful creature that is Heidi Hill. Of course, that's not her real name, but here at KICK-FM, one of the country's most influential radio stations, she becomes someone else for a while. We're not that different, Heidi and I.

Her eyes widen a bit as she leans out the door, her gaze falling over me. She's gone casual today, her endlessly long legs encased in tight, dark-wash jeans and thigh-high black boots, a white blouse with the buttons open to her ample cleavage, her tousled highlighted hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She looks good enough to eat.

"Edward..." Her hazel eyes come to rest on my sunglasses. "You look..." She seems at a loss for words.

"Tired?" I try to help her out, grinning as she opens the door to the studio wider, motioning for me to step through.

"Like shit," she clarifies without missing a beat, causing me to pause in front of her.

I lift a brow. "It was a late night."

"Mmm... Looks like you've had a few of those." Her critical assessment hits me harder than it should. It's been a couple of years since Heidi interviewed me, and we shared a few hot hours in my hotel room before the end of my last tour.

I try to push away the nagging criticism and lean my guitar against the window that faces the producer's area. Through the window, I see Jake standing with his arms crossed beside the intern whose eyes are fixed firmly on me. A man, who looks almost as in shape as Jake does, sits with headphones in place beside them. He offers me a nod as he works the bank of computers and the control board that broadcasts out to the masses.

"Have a seat." Turning to the sound of Heidi's voice, she motions to the black chair under the microphone and I sink down, welcoming the supple leather beneath my weary body. "Are you okay to do this?"

"Of course I am. I may need more of this disgusting coffee though." I take another long sip, wishing something stronger were inside.

She laughs, placing her headphones on and dropping into her chair, rolling it to the desk that sits between us. "It is pretty terrible." She eyes me warily as I adjust the headphones and lower the overhead microphone.

"So, you know the drill. We're live with about a ten second delay, so try to keep the profanities to a minimum." I smirk at her in response. "As you know, we talk about everything and anything on this show..."

My eyes narrow behind my sunglasses. "Not everything. You've seen the communication from my management team."

"You mean the ban on talking about the accident?" I feel my jaw tighten. "Yeah, I've read it."

"Heidi..." The disembodied voice from the production room floats through my headphones. "We're back in twenty."

She nods, her gaze locked to me. "Thanks, Sam. You've seen some of the questions we've received from our Facebook page over the past couple of days, so I'll ask you a few of those. You almost broke Twitter by the way when we announced you'd be here."

I chuckle, shaking my head slightly. "Did I?"

"Mhmm... You're still going to play something? That will drive them crazy."

I nod. It's one of the main reasons I'm doing this interview. "I will."

She smiles at me, looking satisfied with that answer. "Good. We'll talk about the album, I'll do my usual true-false quiz, and if you're okay with it, take a few calls."

"Sounds great."

Sam's voice registers once more and Heidi straightens, adjusting the microphone as the On Air sign blinks to life.

Her eyes drift to a laptop beside her, and she drops into her on air personality. "That was Guns N' Roses and Paradise City. You're live with Heidi in the Hot Tub on 107.5 KICK-FM, up close and personal in the studio with the very talented Edward Cullen. It's good to see you again, Edward."

"Good to be seen, Heidi. How's the hot tub been treating you?"

"I think it just got a little hotter." I chuckle at her answer, my eyes locked to hers. "You and Slash from Guns N' Roses, and Velvet Revolver of course, have played together many times."

I grin with a nod. "Yes, we have."

"He collaborated with you on one of the tracks on the new album," she prompts.

"I was lucky that he was free." Really damn lucky. That track is pure genius thanks in no small part to him.

"What was it like to work with him?"

"He's been a good friend of mine for a long time, and I admire his versatility. It was fantastic to work with him. The really great thing about collaborating is that the other person takes you places you didn't even think about. It's challenging, but we had a lot of fun too."

"You've been hiding away on us save for the odd fight outside a bar or the occasional Instagram picture of you looking like you're having... well, let's just say a really good time."

"I've been working on the album. But all work and no play... You know what they say? I do tend to keep to myself for the most part during recording."

Heidi turns some gossip magazine around, pushing it in front of me. "This doesn't look like you're keeping to yourself."

I scan the photo. I look trashed, my clothes are dishevelled, a glass of Jack no doubt in my hand. There's an obligatory pair of groupies hanging off me in some dimly lit booth. It doesn't paint a good picture. I have no idea where it was even taken. "Don't believe everything you see or read." I push the cheap magazine back to her.

"So you're saying you weren't under the influence when this was taken?"

I chuckle and shake my head. "That's not what I'm saying. Look, it's no secret that I enjoy having a good time. The media seems intent on making sure everyone who has computer or a TV or buys a magazine knows this apparently vital piece of information. I've never denied it. I've never tried to hide it. All I can tell you is my life is lived day-by-day. It sounds like the oldest cliché in the book—one day at a time. Some days are better than others. But I'm trying and I'm still here, and as long as I can take a breath, I'll be making music."

She grins at me. "Sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, right?"

I run my hand over my clean-shaven jaw. "You said that. Not me."

"So, here we are on the eve of the release of your seventh studio album. I had a listen to it last night, and it's, well... beyond amazing, the best work you've done to date in my opinion, but much darker than your previous albums," she notes.

I nod, impressed by her assessment. Heidi knows her music. I will give her that much. It's one of the reasons she has the number-one rated show in the country. "That's a good way to look at it. Darker."

"Tell us about your writing process. When did you write the tracks on the album?"

"I write a lot. It's hard to say when each individual one would have been written. It's a constantly morphing process for me."

"Do you usually have lyrics first or is it the melody that comes to you?"

"Typically for me, it's a lick that will find me that I want to build on."

"It finds you?" she asks, furrowing her brow.

"It absolutely does." I'm aware that my knee has started to shake, nervous energy creeping through me, readying me for the performance I promised. I wish we had done it first. It would have calmed me.

"It's not the other way around?"

"Not for me. It's typically something inside of me that has to get out. It's always been that way for me. Playing isn't something I want or need to do, it's something I _have_ to do, a requirement like breathing."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I'm not really sure. I mean, I grew up around music. There was always something playing in our house. My mom was a product of the sixties, you know? Zeppelin, Hendrix, Joplin, The Who, The Stones... I mean she was at Woodstock for Christ's sake." Her eyes widen as the word slips from my lips. "Shit. Sorry." I turn to the window, and Sam just shakes his head, motioning for me to continue. "From the time I can remember there was always a record player going in the house. Her and my dad would fight about it all the time. He's quite a bit older than she is, and his taste is more along the lines of Chuck Berry and The Four Tops. So I guess you could say I had a very eclectic mix of music around me growing up."

"And how much do you think that influenced you?"

I swallow back the lingering coffee in the cup. "It's everything. Once I started playing, I had this never-ending catalogue of gifted musicians to listen to, learn from, and try to pay tribute to. I wouldn't even try to guess how many times I listened to some of those albums. There are licks that are permanently imprinted in my brain from those days in the garage at my parent's house."

She nods, looking impressed. "If you were given the chance to put together the trifecta of guitar Gods if you will, who would that be?"

"Shi..." I stop myself as she cocks her head in warning. "That's almost impossible to answer. You're really limiting me to three?"

She laughs with a nod. "Three. Only three."

"Hendrix without hesitation... Damn...The other two? There's so many. Clapton, Jimmy Page. I don't know, Heidi. That's really hard to answer. I think every guitarist has something different to give, something you can learn from and appreciate. But I guess those would be my three."

"What about those three specifically inspired you?"

"I don't think there's a guitarist around who wouldn't put Hendrix on their list. I mean, he explored the depths of what rock and roll could be, and watching old footage of him and listening to concerts—it's like music was flowing through him, a part of his soul, an extension of who he was. It was effortless; it looked like it was as easy as breathing to him. I think it's what we all aspire to."

I lift the now empty coffee cup in the direction of the window, pointing to it. Jake nods and disappears from view, hopefully to get me something better than this shit.

"And the others?" Heidi questions.

"Well, Clapton in his earlier days especially, it was all so simple. He plugged a Gibson into a Marshall and that was it. There wasn't any glitz and glamour. It was the basics, the blues, but the melodies... you can't forget them, they stay with you." She nods intently as I continue. "And Jimmy Page, the man is a legend. I don't think anyone can write a better riff. He's influenced every single guitar player I know. You just feel how he infused this edginess, almost defiance into every note. He's just a brilliant, brilliant man."

"And you've shared a stage with Clapton."

I shake my head. I still can't believe it. "As insane as that seems, yes I have."

"What was that like?"

"It was like I was in a dream I didn't want to wake up from."

"This was at the Crossroads Guitar Festival a few years ago?"

"Yeah. One of the highlights of my life so far, no question. I felt inferior... I mean there were these rock Gods on the bill, just beyond any level I could ever hope to reach. When my management team told me about it, I was like, that will never happen. But a few weeks later, there I was at Madison Square Garden in front of sold-out crowds, playing with them."

"Well, both Page and Clapton have had nothing but praise for you. You want me to quote them?"

I shake my head. "No. Don't do that."

"'He's got it going on.' That's from Jimmy Page," she says, reading from the laptop beside her.

"That's crazy."

"Eric Clapton talking to Rolling Stone about you said, 'It's one of the best times I can remember having. He started going off in some other direction entirely, and I was like what's this now, until it all started making sense. He likes to push the boundaries. Not many people do that anymore.'" She pauses, glancing back to me.

"I do like to push the boundaries, Heidi. I don't ever want to be complacent."

"Well, you certainly were not with this album. How long did it take to put all together?"

"This one, about a year and half. I'm lucky that I have my own recording studio at my house, so I can just roll out of bed and go down there. I did a lot of that with this album. I'd just descend into the studio and stay there for hours, get lost a bit. It was what I needed to do."

"It sounds like you were hiding away," she suggests.

I nod, breaking away from her scrutinizing gaze. "Maybe I was."

"You've been pretty outspoken in the past about online music. You always release vinyl versions of your albums a few weeks before they are available for download. Rolling Stone actually credited you with single-handedly reviving the turntable and vinyl industry. Has that changed with this album? Will we ever see Edward Cullen available for download on iTunes before you release on vinyl?"

I laugh, leaning forward in the chair. "Listen, I never said I was against iTunes. What I said was the internet is something that is both freeing and extremely dangerous, a blessing and a curse."

"And by that you mean?"

"It gives people access to music that they may have never thought about listening to. It opens their minds a bit, but at the same time with piracy running rampant, you can download music for free. One click and it's yours. And I think that takes something away from the experience. You tend not to value things you can get for free. I like the experience." She nods with a grin, encouraging me to continue.

"You know? Going down to the store and flipping through albums. Picking one up and feeling it. It's tangible. I have an appreciation for the countless hours of work it took to get the thing into my hands. But now, click and you're done. It's just not the same. I want people to have a defining moment with music, like I did when I first heard Hendrix. I remember putting it on my mom's turntable, and just being blown away. I held the jacket of that album in my hands for hours, studying it and reading it. It's part of the experience of listening to the music. It was when I said, this is what I have to do."

She seems transfixed by my answer, Sam waving at her from the window to snap her back into reality. "The new album, _Crash_, there seems to be a lot of regret in it. Love lost, emptiness. Is that an accurate reflection of your life?"

"I think everyone's life has moments of regret. Love and loss, euphoria and crashing. Life isn't complete without experiencing the highs and lows. It can't be rainbows and sunshine all the time. Music for me is a way to release what's building up inside of me."

Sam motions from behind the window, and Heidi turns back to the laptop.

"It's time for the famous rapid-fire true or false questions." She looks beyond excited, rubbing her hands together.

"Hit me."

"You once put Slash's head through a thirty-inch screen TV in a hotel room."

"False. I think it was like fifty or sixty inches."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You've never been in love."

My smirk falters. "False."

"You never drink on the day of a concert or while you're on stage." She lifts a brow, bringing her gaze back to mine.

"Define drink."

"Alcohol."

"True."

"You save that for after?"

"True."

"You're a loner."

"False."

She doesn't look convinced. "You're hardly ever seen with anyone outside of your brother and your band. You don't seem to socialize much."

"Not that you see. Not everything is for public consumption, Heidi."

She blushes, but continues. "The first concert you played was for your brother and his friends when you were twelve."

I smile as the flashes of that hazy memory come back to me. "True."

"You jammed with Keith Richards in Rio."

I let out a loud laugh. "True."

"Sounds like there's a story there."

I nod, unable to hold back the grin. "Very true."

"You donated twenty percent of the proceeds of your last album to your old high school's music program in Redwood Falls, Minnesota."

"True."

"Twenty percent?"

"That's right."

"That's a lot of money," she reflects.

"There are other people who need it more than I do."

Her smile falters as she reads the laptop screen and she pauses slightly before continuing. "We're coming up to the two-year anniversary of the tragic accident that killed your sister, Alice. What kind of influence did that have on this album?"

I glare at her from behind my sunglasses, silence filling the airwaves as what's left of my heart constricts and cracks. I let Heidi squirm at the silence. No radio station ever wants dead air, but she deserves it for asking me about something I have consistently said is off limits. Every nerve ending in my body coils as I fight not to lose it completely, and I let out a tense, "No comment."

She nods, looking justly mortified, glancing to Sam who makes some gesture to her. "Well, the phone lines have been lighting up all morning, so let's take some calls." She pauses, waiting for the first call to click through to her. "You're live on Kick-FM with Edward Cullen."

"OhMyGod!" A shrill squeal pierces my ears, and I chuckle against the microphone as the caller practically hyperventilates. I may be beyond pissed at Heidi, but I won't let that ruin the experience of interacting with a fan.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"OhmyGod, ohmyGod! Bree! It's Bree! OhMyGod! He just asked my name," she practically pants in a breathy voice to someone in the background who screams at the top of her lungs.

"Breathe, Bree. In and out, deep breaths. I'm just a guy on the phone. What's your question?"

"Okay, okay! Wow! Um... I just can't believe... like..." Another ear-shattering squeal echoes in my ears, and I hold the headphones away for a minute. Heidi rolls her eyes at me, shaking her head in amusement.

"Did you have a question, Bree, or did you just want to breathe heavily over the air?" Heidi mocks.

"OhMyGod! Yes! Yes! I have a question. Okay... When did you get your first guitar? Like, how old were you?"

I grin at the question. "Well, Bree, I was twelve, and it actually wasn't my guitar. My parents had given it to my brother for his birthday in hopes that it would channel some of his um... hyperactivity. But Emmett did give a sh..." I correct myself before I let out another profanity. "He didn't care about it. He was and always will be focused on cars." I chuckle to myself.

"Speed, adrenaline, the feel of the engine. So, he stuffed the guitar in his closet and never played it once. Like any good younger brother would do, one day, I snuck into his room and stole it. It had an instruction tape and a book with it, so I took his ghetto blaster and went to the garage. I plugged in the ghetto blaster and turned on the tape and sat on the trunk of my Mom's station wagon." Heidi smiles at me across the table.

"You have to remember, it was winter in Minnesota, and it was cold as witch's t... Ah, it was cold, feeling it all the way to your bones cold, and here I was holding what I thought was this beautiful, expensive guitar. It actually was cheap, mass-manufactured, and way out of tune, but I didn't know that at the time. What I knew was that I liked the way it felt in my hands and the sounds that it was making when I played it." I close my eyes, letting the memory flash back to me. "It was the first time I had ever made anything by myself. I had no idea what I was doing at first. I sat in there, freezing my ass off for hours. My fingers were bleeding by the time I stopped. I didn't want to take it back to Emmett's room, so I hid it behind a bunch of boxes in the corner. I played that guitar every day for a couple of weeks until I had gone through the book so many times, I had it memorized. I had to put little Band-Aids on my fingers they were so bad. My Mom asked about them, and I gave her some story about burning them on the fireplace. I didn't want anyone to know what I was doing. I wanted something that was just for me for once." My voice trails off and I twist in the chair, needing to play, needing to fuel the energy that's threatening to explode.

Heidi nods slowly, lifting her head to my guitar. "That was a great question, Bree. We're going to take a short break, but when we come back, we'll all get to hear Edward Cullen, live."

I smile, what may be my first real, genuine one of the day at my three favorite words. _Edward Cullen live._

\m/

_**Bella**_

"Well, it's about time you emerged from that office. I was about to send out the Marines."

I turn to see my best friend standing at the end of the hallway, obviously having just emerged from her own apartment. Our homes are at the opposite ends of the same floor; mine looks out over Lafayette Park, while hers has a view of the Peace Pagoda. Frankly, I think I have the better view, but Jessica claims she can't think of a more inspiring sight to see from her bedroom window than a giant phallic symbol. Based on the amount of action her bedroom sees compared to mine, she may be right.

"If they were cute Marines, I might let you," I counter, a wry smirk on my face. She laughs, walking towards me.

"Are there any other kind?"

It's my turn to laugh as I fumble with my keys in the lock. "Marines aren't really my speed. Now, firemen on the other hand…"

"Ooh, I have just the guy!" she squeals as I finally get my door open. She trails behind me, babbling at full throttle. "His name is Jared, and he comes in every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, and orders a half-dozen tall Americanos for his shift. He's stationed at the firehouse a block down on California, and he has abs you could scrub clothes on."

I look at her sharply as I toss my bag and keys onto my small kitchen table. "Since when did you have the opportunity to see his abs?"

"He also happens to be Mr. July," she says with a huge grin, and I hum appreciatively in understanding. She'd purchased both of us copies of this year's San Francisco Firefighter Charity calendar, and we take turns salivating over the men-of-the-month. I don't know how they select the guys—and a couple of women—to model, but damn if they hadn't done a stellar job choosing this year's crop.

"Well, if he looks as good in real life, I might consider it." I kick off my heels with a sigh of relief. "Thanks for moving the festivities here this time."

She waves a hand dismissively and wanders into my kitchen. "No problem," she says, beginning to root around in my cupboard for a couple of wine glasses. "I'll get us set up while you change. Can't relax while you're looking like Corporate America."

"Thanks." Leaving Jess to her own devices, I retreat to my bedroom and quickly divest myself of my proper business jacket and skirt. I take my hair down and rub my fingers through it briskly to massage some of the tension out of my scalp and neck. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I quickly turn away and don my comfiest pair of yoga pants and a stretchy t-shirt. It's not that I think I'm ugly; I've seen the reaction I can cause in a man enough times to know I'm pretty enough. I've just never seen the use in looking at myself in the mirror beyond the necessary "Is my hair okay," or "Do I have broccoli stuck in my teeth," type of appraisals. What began as a rebellious phase in my youth has blossomed into an instinctive avoidance.

Hearing Jess call for me, I stroll back into the living area, rolling my shoulders as I walk. "Tough day?" she asks and hands me a glass of red wine. I take a sip and hum in appreciation.

"Just a complex day. And, thanks." I raise my glass to her as she makes herself comfortable on my couch. "What are we sampling this evening?"

"We're taking a trip north of the border tonight." She reaches for the bottle that she'd sat on my old college footlocker that I use for a coffee table.

I perk up. "Canada?"

"Not that far north; just Oregon. Not far from my old stomping grounds, in fact. This is a pinot noir from the Willamette Valley—Domaine Drouhin."

"Sounds pretentious. I get enough of that in Napa," I comment, wrinkling my nose. I take another sip…and then another. "But they can call themselves anything they want if they make wine this good."

I close my eyes and savor the rich flavors of cherry and cinnamon that roll over my tongue. Jessica and I started our ritual of Wine Wednesdays back when we were broke college students. The quality of the wines has improved markedly since then, for which our livers are thankful. Some nights we sample new labels, and sometimes we hunker down and enjoy a bottle of our favorites, letting the day wash away in the process. It's a wonderful way to de-stress.

We chat about our respective days, and I feel my spirits lift as my glass empties. Jessica Stanley and I met during our sophomore year at UC-Berkeley. Although I grew up in a little town just north of here, Jess hailed from wonderful and weird Portland. If there was ever a city that let you do your own thing, it was Portland, and Jess had flourished there. But, when college came, she needed to fly the nest. Seattle was still too close to her parents, so San Francisco won. She now manages a coffee shop owned by one of our former professors two blocks away and aptly named, "Java Lust." So far, she's not only managed to keep it from being swallowed by Starbucks, but there are even plans for expansion in the works.

I lean my head against the back of the sofa. Some people are talking on the radio; the words are indistinct, but the man's voice is husky and sensuous, providing a soothing backdrop. "Did Laurent mind that we didn't show up tonight?" We usually go to our one-floor-down-neighbor Laurent's bar on Fillmore to imbibe, unless one of us has a particularly long day and we decide to camp out at home.

Jess shakes her head as she reaches for the wine bottle. "Nah. When I saw him at lunch, he simply said that we'd need to make it up to him this Saturday. He has a small combo coming in." She refills my glass and leans forward with a mischievous glint in her eye. "He's seeing someone."

"Already? Didn't he and that Tyler guy just break up?" I ask in surprise, although I shouldn't be. Laurent doesn't exactly believe in a mourning period between partners. The man is voracious.

"That was weeks ago," she says with a chuckle. "This guy's name is Jack or Jay or something. All I got out of him was that he's some kind of driver or delivery guy. It kinda slipped out when he was telling me about the combo, and he clammed up. It's like it's a state secret."

"Well, maybe he's being cautious because it's new," I reason, nudging her playfully. "Not everyone likes to blab about their love life, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbles good-naturedly. We both know that she has virtually no filter regarding her own dating life. "We can't all be monks like you."

My mouth drops open. "I'm not a monk!" I sputter. "I'm just…choosy."

She laughs. "You know, B, you really should put yourself out there more. With that fluffy brown hair and those big doe eyes, you could have men lining up if you made yourself more accessible."

"I'm accessible enough." Jeez, what does she want from me? I went out last week with that David guy she set me up with from her yoga class. And, I went to dinner three weeks ago—or was it four—with a nice guy I found all on my own. Okay, so it was kind of business-related because he was a contributor, but still.

She opens her mouth to continue when our attention is diverted by an abrupt silence from the radio. It's one of those instances where, for a split second, you wonder if the next thing you'll hear is the emergency alert system test screech.

"No comment." The unknown male voice is almost as jarring, his tone clipped, as if the speaker is barely containing his anger. There's a pause, and then an apologetic-sounding female announcer picks up, "Well, the phone lines have been lighting up all morning, so let's take some calls. You're live on Kick-FM with Edward Cullen."

_Who? _My eyebrows shoot up as an abrasive squealing from a fan who has called into the studio emits from the speakers. "What is this?" I ask, as my heartbeat inexplicably increases.

"KICK is replaying the interview they had this afternoon with Edward Cullen. I only caught a bit of it today and wanted to hear the rest. I didn't think you'd mind. He was actually there, in the studio, if you can believe it. I guess the place was mobbed—Laurent said that he'd heard they had to call extra security to the building."

I hum noncommittally and take another sip of wine, my mind buzzing. Having decided to try to fulfill Parker Jensen's dream of living a day as a rock star with his idol, I made the initial calls to Cullen's team this morning. I am still conflicted about whether this is a good idea, but I said we'd try, so we'll try.

Jessica reaches over and turns the volume up just as the man in question is finishing an answer about when he learned to play guitar. I can't help it; the image of a shy boy with tousled hair trying to play a guitar bigger than himself, his fingers tipped in bandages, brings a fond smile to my lips. The irritation that had colored his voice after the sudden silence has disappeared, replaced by a tone of wonder and warmth that begins to do odd things to me.

They break for a commercial, and I take the opportunity to rise and fetch another bottle from my rack in the kitchen. I have a feeling I'll need it. Jess is still going on about Cullen; how _incredible_ his last album was, how _hot _he is, and how _amazing_ it would be to hear him live. I can't really deny any of that, but hearing her prattle away about him is beginning to make me nervous—I don't know why.

I swiftly uncork the next bottle and return to refill our glasses just in time to hear a few tentative notes plucked on a guitar before one of the sexiest voices I've ever heard begins to sing.

_If I could do it all over,_

_Do things differently from the start,_

_I would._

_If I could erase the ugly words,_

_Hit rewind on it all,_

_I would._

_Do you believe me?_

His husky voice is full of such poignant sorrow and longing, it takes my breath away. The simplicity of the single acoustic guitar fits the mood perfectly, and Jess and I sit stock-still, enraptured. He plays with such confidence and skill, the notes tumbling from the speakers. I'm seized with the desire to see him play, to _see_ his fingers fly over the strings and the expression on his face.

_I remember golden light and laughter,_

_A time before the tears and pain._

_That's how you'll always be for me,_

_A brilliant smile through the rain._

_Can you hear me?_

I'm scarcely breathing by the time he finishes, and there's a profound silence after the last notes shimmer and fade. It seems the deejay, Heidi What's-Her-Name, is just as affected. I can hear her sucking in a shaky breath before she pulls herself together and breaks for another commercial.

"Damn. That was incredible," Jessica moans beside me, and I can only nod. I've never heard him without his band behind him, and it's a completely different experience.

"Wow. That was…he sounds so…" I trail off, not sure how to put it into words, but Jessica nods in understanding anyway.

"I know. God, I hope he sings another one." But, when the interview continues, we're treated only to two more, almost incoherently excited fan calls that don't give Edward much to work with. I can't understand what the first girl asks, but he must, because he begins explaining about when the other members of his band joined him. There's obviously a story there, but he declines to explain when Heidi pushes. The last call was a complete waste—some girl asking him to marry her amongst the giggles of seemingly dozens of girls in the background.

"Uh, well, Becky," he drawls in a voice made for sin, "Although I _am_ flattered, I'm afraid I have to decline your gracious offer." Becky stutters a few more words that can barely be heard over all the giggling before the call is mercifully cut off.

"Okay, on _that_ note, I'm afraid our time has come to an end," Heidi says, and I can almost hear her eyes rolling in her head. Then her voice changes into a sultry, come-hither tone, which I'm sure is exactly the message she's trying to convey to her guest. "Thanks, Edward, for visiting us today. I'm sure I speak for everyone listening when I say I'm looking forward to the release of this album with _great_ anticipation."

"You're most welcome, Heidi."

The station switches to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I reach over and turn it down. I snort derisively, shaking my head at the squandered opportunity. "I can't believe that last person. She probably waited on hold for an hour, and God knows what she told the screener to get through, only to use the one chance she'll ever have to ask someone like Edward Cullen a question on a ridiculous thing like that. What a waste."

Jessica eyes me thoughtfully from her end of the sofa. "And what, pray tell, would you have asked him?" she asks with a smirk.

I blink, momentarily thrown. What would I ask him? "I don't know…maybe something about where he gets his inspiration? Does he have a muse? What was the song he just sang about? Shit…I don't know, but it sure as hell wouldn't have been about _marriage_."

Her smirk becomes a full-blown grin, so I flutter my eyelashes and clasp my hands to my chest while trilling in a breathy falsetto, "Oh, _Edward_, you're _so hawt_… Do you like kittens and sunsets and long walks on the beach?" She cracks up, and I dodge the pillow she throws my way, managing to save the wine bottle in the process.

"You're so full of it," she grouses, still chuckling. "Come on…I've got a meeting with a new distributor tomorrow morning. Let's clean up."

We recork the leftover wine—a rare occurrence in itself—and rinse out our glasses. Jess gives me a hug and, with promises to talk tomorrow, she heads done the hall to her home. Sometime after locking up, I lay in my bed with Cullen's song on repeat in my head. It was raw and real, and just so damn sad. It was amazing how different he sounded without his band backing him. His voice seemed to wrap around me, infusing me with unsettling warmth.

What _would_ I have asked him? I stare at the ceiling, remembering those haunting green eyes that were so compelling in his promo photo. I squirm beneath my sheets, wondering what it would be like to look into those eyes in real life, but immediately squelch those thoughts. _Keep your eye on the prize, Bella_, I scold myself. What I _should_ want to know is if he'll be willing to play by the rules to accommodate Parker's dream. Because as much as I want to grant the boy's wish, I can't do it if it would do more harm than good.

With a huff, I roll over and punch my pillow. I'm overthinking this. Dream fulfillment isn't the same as being asked to donate a guitar for a charity auction, but I'm sure this isn't the first time he's been contacted by a wish organization. Most publicists are prepared for this type of request and already have a plan in place. In fact, many contact _us_ first, letting us know they'd love to participate—as if I don't know that they've included charitable giving as part of their communications plan. Whatever. As long as the kids benefit, I don't care how a dream gets arranged.

In fact, I rarely speak to the celebrities myself. I usually let Irina make the arrangements, only becoming personally involved when a particularly prickly personality needs to be cajoled. However, this time… I flop over and stare at the ceiling some more. This time, maybe it would be a good idea to check this out myself. Based on the portion of the interview I heard, Cullen does seem to be quick tempered. Of course, I didn't hear exactly what Heidi said to cause that biting 'no comment,' but it probably would be wise to feel him out ahead of time to ensure that same temper won't be unleashed on young Parker.

I snort softly. "_Feel him out_," I chuckle to myself. "Now I'm sounding like Jess." With a deep sigh, I turn over again, content with my decision. Yes. It will be better to speak to him myself to sort things out, for the good of the organization and Parker.

_Right. You keep telling yourself that, Bella._

**Chapter end notes:**

Mhmm... Feel him out.

Up next in two weeks, pinky promises that make grown women swoon.

Twitter: LatteCoug, CarLemon


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to all those reading and reviewing, and Happy Thanksgiving to all American friends and those who celebrate. We hope you continue to enjoy these two. Mandy, this is for you.

* * *

><p><em>Music is a safe kind of high. - Jimi Hendrix<em>

**_Chapter 3_**

**_Edward_**

"Nice of you to join us." I scowl at Jasper as he runs a nervous hand through his hair while we stand in one of the waiting rooms at KICK-FM.

He's over an hour late and looks like shit.

"I may have slept in," he offers.

"No shit. I would have liked to sleep in too, but I have commitments. In case you forgot, so do you," I grind out. I pull my sunglasses off, glaring at him. "She asked a question about...the accident." I can barely even say those words without feeling another wave of pain rip through me. "If you would have been here..."

"She still would have asked it. What do you want me to do, Edward? People are curious. They're going to ask," he says as if it's no big deal at all. As if the single most devastating event in my life can be swept away.

"It's nobody's business. I thought you went over this with them." I can feel my anger and frustration rise. It's not a good combination when I have no way to channel the energy.

"It's in your interview notes," he mumbles, looking like he's going to pass out as he leans against the wall, closing his bloodshot eyes with a deflated hum. I take in his haggard and waif-like appearance. He looks worse than I did this morning. At least I'm functioning. I have no idea what shit he got into after I passed out, and I don't want to know. There were enough narcotics in that room to cause some serious damage, and it looks like he sampled most of it.

I cross the room to him, fisting his leather jacket in my hand. Jake is at my side in a heartbeat. "Let it go, Edward," Jake murmurs.

"It's your job to manage this." I can feel the thin thread I'm holding onto start to slip. My voice sounds all low and gritty.

Jasper's eyes fly open, a momentary look of panic on his face. The scent of his exaggerated cologne and mouthwash sweeps over me as he tries to lean away, raising both his hands in surrender. "You know, if you actually talked about it, they would stop asking, man."

I slam his back against the wall. "Not. Going. To. Happen. Do your fucking job, or I'll find someone who can."

He narrows his sunken eyes at me. "Are you threatening me? Because I have a contract that—"

"It's a promise. Not a threat."

"Edward..." Jake, my voice of reason, takes hold of the back of my jacket, hauling me away from Jasper as the tension mounts between us.

"You need to relax," Jasper starts, pushing off the wall and heading for the coffee stand in the corner—as far away from me as possible. "Let me make a few calls and we can—"

I interrupt Jasper before he can even think about finishing that sentence. "I'm not interested in partying with junkies and groupies, and whoever the hell else you're associating with these days. I need a fucking break, Jazz. A break. Without some lethal fucking cocktail of excess swimming in my veins today."

With shaking hands, he pours himself a cup of the awful coffee, turning back to face me. He leans against the table for support. I think he might fall down if he didn't. "All right, all right. I'm just sayin'..." His voice trails while he takes a sip, scowling and spitting it back into the Styrofoam cup.

"I don't give a fuck what you're saying."

As we glare at each other in a silent standoff, the door to the room pushes open, and Heidi leans in.

"Good, you're still here," she says, her voice all breathy.

"We were just leaving," Jake answers for me, easing his grip on my jacket slightly.

"Look, I really want to apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable," she starts, crossing the room to me, her hips swaying far too much. "Let me make it up to you?" She looks up at me in a way that is all too familiar. You don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what she means, and if I didn't feel like absolute shit and on the verge of punching a hole through a wall, I may even consider it.

Heidi was good times during that weekend we spent together. Experienced, sexy as hell, and didn't expect me to fall in love with her just because we fucked. That's a welcome change from a lot of the groupies, who can become borderline stalkers.

Unfortunately, one of the downfalls of being famous is the psychos that seem to migrate like bees to honey. Riley Biers, my rhythm guitarist, had to get a restraining order against one very messed up twenty-year-old who started sending threatening emails and tweets to him because he wouldn't agree to marry her. There are some very delusional fans out there.

"What do you say, Edward? You know I'm sorry," she presses, giving me her best attempt at innocence. Sadly, I know there is absolutely nothing innocent about Heidi.

I glance down at her, shaking my head. "No. You're not sorry." Her eyes widen, and she wisely takes a step back. "You can make it up with Jasper. I'm out of here."

\m/

The screams are deafening as Jake does his best to guard me while I sign everything that is shoved in front of my face. And I do mean everything. Album covers, CDs, t-shirts, trashy magazine articles, someone's Les Paul guitar that I'm more than a little impressed with, a white thong, and yes, tits.

"I'm totally getting this made into a tattoo! Do you think it would look trashy?" The thirty-something woman asks me as she practically vibrates with excitement when I hand her back the Sharpie.

"That depends. Where were you thinking about getting it?"

She tugs on the tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination down, exposing her breast without shame, her fingers brushing just above her nipple. "Right here!"

I shake my head, hearing Jake laugh, a rare and wonderful slip in his usually stern behavior. "If that's where you want it, but remember, tatts are permanent," I remind her above the roar of the crowd.

She squeals like a high school girl as Jake steers me away from the throng, parting the way to James and the waiting Hummer. I pause at the fence beside a little boy, standing with someone I assume is his Mom. He's no more than eight, and looks like he's stunned to see me. He's wearing one of the t-shirts from my last concert tour two years ago. It's so big on him it hangs past his knees.

"Would you mind signing his album?" the woman asks quietly.

It's rare that people actually ask. I'm used to items just being shoved in front of me. I tug my sunglasses off, hook them to the pocket of my jacket, and crouch down beside him. "I'd love to." I take the album from her and turn it over. "This was my first record."

"I know," the little boy says quietly. "It's my favorite."

"It is?" I grin at him, and the woman lets go of his tiny hand. "Why is that?"

"It sounds like you were having a lot of fun."

"I was." I run my hand over the jacket of the album. "What's your name?"

"Dylan," he answers quietly. I have to strain to hear him above the roaring screams that surround us.

I nod and scribble a message before signing my name below. I hand the album back to him, watching as his reads the signature. "Thank you for coming to see me today, but shouldn't you be in school?" I tease.

His eyes widen as the woman laughs beside him. "Mom said I could take it off just because it's you."

I lift my gaze to her with a chuckle. "I like your style, Mom."

She laughs, pulling out her phone from her large purse. "Could I take one? I won't post it anywhere," she adds quickly. I try not to laugh at her. I've been blinded by flashes since I stepped out to greet the throng. There will be hundreds of pictures up on the net within a matter of minutes, and she's worried that I'll be offended if she posts just one.

I nod and lean into Dylan, sliding my arm around his tiny shoulder as she takes a picture.

"He just totally loves you. He wants to be a rock star when he grows up," she says, taking his hand once more.

"You do?" He nods so fast I think he may hurt his neck. "Well, you have to work hard and practice, okay?"

"Okay," he says, his smile widening.

"Promise me?"

He nods, holding out his pinky to me. "Pinky swear."

I chuckle and link my pinky with his. "Pinky swear."

I hear the rev of the Hummer, glancing at Jake who has the back door open for me. I pat Dylan on the shoulder, giving another wave to the fanatical crowd before folding into the safety of the backseat.

Slipping my sunglasses back on, I can't hold back the smile as James navigates his way away from the radio station. It's days like this that remind me why I'm still here.

\m/

"Well, the good news is it doesn't look like you have an infection," Rose says, applying some unknown substance to the bottom of my foot that stings like a son-of-a-bitch.

"What's the bad news?" I ask, leaning forward on the tub as I slide my sock back on.

"You can't keep doing what you're doing." She moves to the sink and washes her hands, her eyes locking to mine in the mirror.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You may think you're fooling everyone else, but you can't fool me, Edward. I know what you've been doing. Coke last night...who knows what else. It's becoming a habit," she accuses, her voice stern.

"It's not like that. I was just blowing off some steam."

She turns to face me, her arms folded across her chest. "Find another way to blow it off."

"I already have a mother."

"And what would she think of you right now?" She lifts a brow.

"Why don't you ask her if you're so worried?"

"When was the last time you talked to her?" she presses.

I narrow my eyes at her before tugging my boot on. Fuck that hurts. The bottom of my foot throbs as I stand up, moving to the door. "Don't start."

"No. Don't_ you _start. You might think you're in control of this, but trust me, you're not." I shake my head, reaching for the door, before feeling her hand slide over my arm, tugging me back. "It's going to grab hold of you, and if you're not careful, it will take you down. I've seen it before."

My gaze locks with hers, and I can see the worry etched in her face. "You worry too much. I'm fine, okay?"

She slowly shakes her head. "Edward..."

"I'm fine." She drops her grip on my arm, and I haul open the door, wondering just who I'm trying to convince.

\m/

**_Bella_**

"Ugh, it's only three? It feels like midnight," I groan, looking at the clock on my desk and wishing I could alter time. Lauren clicks her tongue at me and smirks.

"Suck it up, boss-lady. You've only had three meetings today. Granted, one was with the Board and you had to deal with Mike making goo-goo eyes at you for two hours, but still…" She sets another stack of financials on my desk, ignoring my eye roll. "You know, I don't know why you just won't give in and go out with him once. He's not _that_ bad. He's actually kind of cute, you know, in a puppy-dog way."

I simply cock an eyebrow and stare at her until she starts laughing. "Yeah, okay," she concedes through her chuckles. "Never mind."

"I'll do that." I reach for a new report as she sits down opposite my desk. Lauren's a good assistant, but she's looking at me with that expression of vague concern that I've learned precedes the type of motherly probing that I'm not in the mood for. I swear, the girl spends more time worrying about me than my own mother does, and that's saying something.

"So what's eating you, if it's not the prospect of a romantic evening with Mike Newton? Is everything okay?"

"Of course," I say calmly, continuing to peruse the pages in front of me without really seeing them. "I just didn't sleep well. My neighbor's cats decided to do their own rendition of _The Magic Flute_ last night." I shrug and chance a glance at her; she laughs and rises again, apparently satisfied.

"Awesome. I hoped you tipped well this morning. That kind of talent in felines should be rewarded," she quips, her smirk returning. "I didn't mean to pry, but you've been a little 'off' all day."

I shake my head, smiling fondly, and close the file in my hand with a snap. "Never fear, m'dear," I drawl. "I'll be back to my whip-cracking ways tomorrow, okay?"

"Ooh, whips on Friday!" she giggles with exaggerated excitement. "I'll be sure to bring my handcuffs!"

I ball-up a scrap of paper and throw it, causing her to duck out as it bounces ineffectually off the doorframe. Her laughter rings behind her and I smile…until I think about the real reason for my sleeplessness.

It's so stupid. I huff in annoyance and turn to my computer to try to focus on my email. I usually sleep like a rock, but after listening to that damned radio interview, I tossed and turned all night. It's not like I was dreaming of him, not really. But that voice…that sumptuous, rugged voice kept infiltrating my dreams and waking me up, leaving me groggy and irritated. Damn it.

I'm also not sure why I couldn't just fess up to Lauren instead of blaming Fluffy and Muffin. I mean, it's no big deal, right? It was a radio show for Pete's sake. It's the same as if I'd creeped myself out by watching _The Exorcist_ and then had dreams of head-spinning and pea soup. Stupid.

Rolling my eyes at my ridiculousness, I try to concentrate on my messages, responding to some and sending more, but I'm distracted. Lack of sleep and frustration with myself are killing my productivity today. I pause and stare beyond the computer screen to the window, letting my mind drift. It's only been a day since we made the call to Cullen's representatives. We'll be lucky to get a response back this week, so I need to calm the heck down and put it aside. Why is this bothering me so much? I'm acting like Jess.

Before I realize it, I'm Googling his name and scanning the photos that pop up. There are dozens of new pictures that were taken during his stop at the radio station. I shake my head at the crowd straining at the security line as he walks down the row. It never fails to surprise me how normally rational adult women—and men, for that matter—manage to behave like raving, hormonal teenagers in the face of celebrity. Not that I'm totally immune, of course. Angela still gives me shit over how tongue-tied I was for the first few minutes after being introduced to Michael Fassbender at an event a couple years ago. And don't get me started on what an English or Italian accent can do to me. But you'll never catch me screaming and—I peer at one photo more closely in disbelief—shoving _my boobs _at someone to sign. Holy…does that woman have no shame? Who shoves their tits in a perfect stranger's face in broad daylight?

Still bemused by the crowd, I examine the main subject of the photos. It's like he's channeling Johnny Cash—he's the man in black. Black, black, and more black, from his sunglasses right down to his heavy boots. The simple jeans and t-shirt hug his long, lean physique perfectly, although I'm sure that was the farthest thing from his mind when he got dressed that morning. He doesn't strike me as the type to care much about his wardrobe. I snort softly; his unruly hair looks like he just rolled out of bed, and _that_ is probably closer to the truth.

I move the cursor to close the page, but I spy a couple other photos that stop me in my tracks. He's kneeling with his arm around an adorable little boy who's practically glowing with happiness. They seem to be off to the side of the main crowd somewhat, posing for a picture being taken by a woman…probably the boy's mother or something. My eyes widen as I take in the scene. The boy is obviously thrilled by the encounter, but it's the look in Cullen's eyes that surprises me. It's a look of sincere gratitude andenjoyment. His soft smile as he talks to the boy is poles apart from the cocky mask he sports when interacting with the other fans. Maybe he really gets it, I wonder. I click on another photo and can't help the squeak that escapes me. Edward Cullen making some kind of pinky promise with the little guy…good God, if that doesn't make someone's ovaries explode, I don't know what will.

I shake my head decisively and close out of the browser. That settles it. If he can interact like that with a random fan, he should be able to fulfill Parker's dream.

My heart twinges as I think of our dream candidate. I spoke to Parker's mother, Sheila, earlier; she's thrilled that we are going to try to make the necessary arrangements. He isn't taking his latest round of chemo well, and his mother is understandably upset. His doctor is concerned about Parker's stamina, and he's trying different things to make it easier, but nothing seems to be helping so far. Sheila says the only thing that makes her little boy smile is his guitar.

I can only imagine the smile that would light his face if he were to be able to meet his idol.

I want this to work.

There's a light rap on my door, and Irina sticks her head inside my office. "Are you ready?" she asks. "I just have a couple of things."

"Sure, come on in," I reply, waving her inside. I've almost forgotten that she wants to go over a few cases with me. I rise and come around my desk to join her on the small couch against the wall. She lays the files she brought down on the low coffee table, and peers over the top of her glasses as she selects one.

"All right, we're having a little scheduling trouble with the Red Wings for the Simpson dream. I was hoping you could give their owner a call," she begins, and I gratefully clear my head of all thoughts Cullen and focus on my job. We work through the half-dozen or so cases that need a little extra finagling, and I'm surprised to see it's already five-thirty when we finish.

"Well, I think that's it for today." Irina restacks her files, and rises gracefully to her feet. "Oh, I almost forgot. I got a call from Cullen's team. I have an appointment to meet his manager and a representative from his record label at the Fairmont on Monday," she says offhandedly.

I suck in a breath. "You do?" I frown, dismayed that the subject is coming up again when I've just managed to get it out of my mind. Luckily, Irina doesn't seem to notice.

"Yeah, we've lucked out. That's their last day in town, so I don't even have to travel. They're heading to LA next, and then New York, I think." She smiles. "The record label was very enthusiastic, so I don't foresee any problems."

"Will Cullen be there, too?"

"There is that distinct possibility." She smooths her sleek blond bob, a smug smile playing on her lips, and I recall the predatory gleam in her eye when we'd first discussed the possibility of Cullen being involved in a dream fulfillment. "I hear he likes to be actively involved in his agenda, and he is staying at the hotel, so…"

My brow furrows. "What time on Monday?" I ask, mentally going over my schedule.

"Why?" She glances at me in confusion.

"I'm going with you."

"Oh, uh…" She falters, drawing my gaze up to hers. Irina rarely hesitates, and I'm wondering if my initial suspicions were right. Then her cool demeanor returns, and she fiddles with the files in her arms, as if looking for something. "Are you sure?" she asks casually."You don't usually attend these sorts of meetings, B."

"I know, but I want to ensure this goes smoothly." At her sharp look, I hastily add, "I've heard Cullen's manager can be difficult, and you might need the extra fire-power." I don't want her to think I doubt her abilities, after all. Irina is extremely skilled at her job. I'm probably misreading her—she's too professional to fuck around with a case, literally _or_ figuratively. "And, you know I have my doubts about whether we should arrange for this or not. I'd like to hear for myself if they understand the situation."

She hums, sounding mollified, and peers at me speculatively. "This is one of those cases for you, isn't it?"

I sigh, knowing that she's right. Sometimes, a dream will just hit you the right way, and it becomes personal. It's not that other dreams aren't as important, but you can't always predict which ones will become 'yours.' And, apparently Parker Jensen, with all his struggles with his chemo and poor prognosis, has become one of mine.

"I guess you're right," I say simply, and she nods. "Okay," she replies, with a touch of resignation, and turns for my door. "I'll send the appointment over to Lauren so she can arrange your calendar."

I remain sitting for a moment after she departs before I gather myself and return to my desk. With a sigh, I shut down my computer and grab my briefcase and purse, deciding I can look over the few remaining memos that need my signature at home with a glass of wine.

Lauren has already left for the day. Waving to a few others who are still finishing up at their desks, I make my way down the empty corridor to call an elevator. I feel strangely numb, except for the butterflies in my stomach that seem to be doing the _Merengue_. Despite my earlier misgivings and Irina's possible boundary issues, a burst of excitement hits me as the doors slide open and I step inside. I can't help my grin, and I repeatedly punch the button for the lobby like I did when I was a little girl.

This is going to work.

* * *

><p>Chapter End Notes:<p>

_Do we think it's going to work?_

_Up in two weeks - Bella's date night._

_Twitter: LatteCoug, CarLemon_

_Happy Thanksgiving, American Friends._


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to all those reading and reviewing. It makes our day to hear what you think. Let's check in with these two. Mandy, this is for you.

_Which side of the blade is sharper? The lie or the truth? It all seems irrelevant when your jugular is sliced open and you're lying in a pool of blood for the whole world to see. - Nikki Sixx_

**Chapter 4**

_**Edward**_

The thing about life-changing events is that you never see them coming. You don't expect your life to be turned upside down in the cruelest of ways. The road I was, and am still, trying to navigate is a precarious one.

You live somewhere between a glamorous dream and a horrific nightmare. Your life is no longer your own. You can't do the things you once took for granted. Going to the movies, the beach, on vacation, hell to go to the grocery store becomes almost impossible.

No one prepares you for what this kind of fame brings along with it. The moments I'm on the stage make the sacrifice of a normal life, whatever that is, worth it. It's the highest of highs that keeps me doing what I do. There is nothing like the rush of adrenaline that surges through you when the lights go up and an entire stadium explodes because of you.

But, it's a lethal cocktail designed to test you at every single turn. You indulge because you start to believe the hype. You believe you are invincible. You hurt and love in equal measure, taking no prisoners as the train you are on seems to be rocketing toward an unknown destination. You are a passenger to the most intense ride of your life, and no matter how hard you try to take control, sometimes the train veers off into a place that you never expected.

For me, it took something from me that I can never get back. And I'm not the only one. Everyone has his own story of this business, this life. It changes you, and that's part of the lure—every experience is different. But for some, you're left angry and confused, emotionally drained, just trying to make it through another darkened day.

One day can change your life. If anyone believes differently, he's fooling himself. I've had a few days that are defining moments for me, the accident being the most recent. I know I've been trying to fill the void, _needing_ to fill it, but like I said, no amount of coke or Jack can do that. I know this on some base level. I know that Rose is right to a certain degree, even though I'd never admit it to her.

Alice was a constant in my life, the glue that held me together when everything around me seemed like it was spinning out of control. And in this business, something _real_, something tangible, something you can count on, is very hard to find. She held us all together, Emmett, Mom and Dad, all of us, and without her... I feel like I'm drifting, spiraling, careening off the track once more.

Writing this album has helped somewhat. Alone in my studio. With the notes and chords that speak my language, is a place where I feel safe and in control. It's familiar, and reminds me of why I'm here. No matter how lost I get, when I play, I find myself again, if only for a little while. And that is the problem. It doesn't last.

Inevitably, I have to stop playing. Commitments, demands, interviews, miles logged on the road, in the air. Another state, another venue, another country. They're all distractions, and for me, for a lot of people in the music business, we suffer from the Bright Shiny Object Syndrome. What's that over there? A chick who wants to fuck? Bring it on. Wait, who's that backstage? Another musician who wants to play his demo for me? Sign me up. Another bottle of Jack between the band? Fuck yes. And so it goes. Breaking the cycle doesn't seem possible, and I'm not even sure I want to try.

\m/

It's Saturday night, and I'm currently sitting in the roped-off VIP lounge at a hidden nightclub in the heart of San Fran with rest of my band. Jake has parked himself at the top of the stairs, at the ready as always to protect my sorry ass should the need arise.

The entrance to the bar is deceiving, leaning towards gritty, but once you're in, you're transformed. The interior takes up three glorious stories. Old hardwood floors and a huge horseshoe-shaped bar with muted lighting, gives way to a sea of red couches and big white leather chairs designed for close talking. There are ornate mirrors hanging everywhere in the direction of the dance floor, because we wouldn't want to miss any grinding action that may happen to be going on.

We're currently on round I forget, being served by a waitress whose tight, black boy shorts and tied off shirt leave nothing to the imagination, much to our pleasure. I'm very lucky to have this talented, if not a little fucked-up group behind me. They are loyal, something else that is a rarity in this industry, and they are the best in the business.

We're not without our fair share of in-fighting, but that's to be expected when you've logged a lifetime of hours stuck on tour bus. There's now a balance between us all. When we're not recording or touring together, everyone does their own thing. They all have their own interests, their own careers, playing as highlighted guests from time to time with other musicians.

But when we're together, magic happens. We each bring our own unique flavor to the band. We know each other's limits, and how far we can push each other. I consider them my second family. We share a camaraderie that only comes from touring, and as much as I can trust anyone, I do trust them.

Riley, my rhythm guitarist, is a genius. He can read and anticipate where I'm going with a song like no other. Riley and I have been playing together the longest. I moved to L.A. when I was twenty, much to extreme horror of my father, and Riley found me, playing one night at a bar just off Sunset.

He's probably the only person in the world who would have had the balls to join me on stage- unannounced and unrehearsed, but when he did, I knew I found my other musical half. Sometimes you get lucky in life; other times, fate has different plans.

I had been searching for a band for a few months, bouncing from one gig to the next, but nothing ever felt right. There was always something missing, but when Riley played those first few chords, I just knew. It's a sensation I still get every single time we play. It's something elusive that some musicians search their entire lives for. It's a groove that you just know when you hear it, or in my case, when I feel it.

He has the same visceral impact on the way I play now that he did then. It's a harmonic, textural experience. We weave together and play off each other so well, it's like he's in my head. It's not a place most people want to stay for long.

Riley came from old L.A. money. I'm talking gated communities, private jets, and a privileged upbringing. He was the typical rich kid in school, but as soon as he picked up a guitar in music class, and found his soul, the polo club took a backseat.

Much to Mommy and Daddy's shock, he rebelled like a lot of rich kids often do and he sought out anything that would distance him from the upper class monotony he had grown up with.

Riley also attracts more groupies than I do, and that's saying something. I think it's his forever-young face that grabs them. They think he's sweet and innocent. He's anything but, and they find that out soon enough.

I've never really understood the groupie phenomenon, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't indulge every now and again. Women love rock stars. It's a universal truth that will continue until the end of time. Typically young, though we get our fair share of cougars and beyond, most groupies have been around block—ridden hard and put away wet as Garrett Logan, my bassist, likes to say.

Groupies serve a means to an end—a way to pass the time. Despite what people may think, touring is not glamorous. It's an adrenaline-fuelled ride for about three hours when you're on the stage, front and centre. The rest is a monotonous nightmarish cycle of packing, driving, unpacking, interviews, waiting around, drinking, and doing it all over again the next night. Female company helps to pass the time. And in Garrett's case, he's the sucker who thinks he's in love every damn time.

Garrett is as unassuming and quiet as you ever can be when surrounded by the insanity that seems to follows us—until you put a bass guitar in his hands. Then, the man transforms and plays like he's possessed.

Garrett answered an ad that Riley and I put out for a bassist. It only took one song to hear his powerful, metal influenced, uniquely melodic sound to know he was our man. He was spending time as a session guitarist, and had grown bored. He wanted a chance to show off his creativity. Once again, fate was kind to me.

Garrett doesn't talk a lot about his past. The closest he came to revealing anything about himself was on the bus during an overnight to some hick town in the middle of fucking nowhere Indiana. We were shooting the shit the way you have to or you'll go insane when you're on tour. Everyone was giving up something about their past, when Garrett came out with the only nugget he ever has about his.

He said he didn't know his father—had never met him, that his mother was a stripper who was hardly around when he was growing up. "It's an insult to the word 'mother' to use it for her." That's all we got, and we didn't push him for more. Liam Murphy, our drummer, simply handed him another Guinness, clinking their bottles, and said, "Drink up then, G."

Liam was last to join us. An import from England, Liam is probably the most erratic of the bunch. He dyes his hair more often than most women, vacillating between the colors of the rainbow in vivid streaks just because he can. He's a whirlwind of energy, in a constant state of motion. He simply can't sit still.

He's essential to us as a band, as gifted drummers are. We simply wouldn't be the same with someone else at the skins. He's always pushing the boundaries, playing around the edges of recklessness, but at the core, he's smart and soulful. No concert is complete without one of his distinct requisite drum solos.

Liam's had a few rough rounds with coke that have sent him to rehab in the past. He learned early that you can stay up and party longer if a bit of cocaine is involved. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop at _a bit. _He's been clean for a year now, but I know how easy it would be for him... for any of us to go down that dark path again.

"Would you just go dance or something?" Riley complains as Liam's leg bounces off nervous energy, causing the entire table to shake. "You're driving me fucking insane."

Liam looks horrified at the thought as he glances down to the pulsing dance floor below us. "I'll get mauled down there, mate."

"And that's a problem because..." Riley starts.

"Fuck off and go get us another round," Liam fires back at him, kicking him hard in the shin.

"That fucking hurt!" Riley complains, lifting his coaster and flipping it at Liam's head.

"Mmm... I'll go," Garrett says, his eyes roaming over our waitress as she leans over the side of the bar. She might as well be naked for everything those shorts cover.

"Just remember, she doesn't love you. She's just a good shag," Liam offers his sage advice, patting Garrett on the shoulder.

"We don't know that for sure," I remind him.

Riley nods, turning his head back to us. "Yes. We do."

"You know this?" Liam asks with a grin, leaning back against the plush booth. "Do share with the rest of the class."

"I know this. Fucked her two nights ago. You won't be disappointed, G. A little standard, nothing too wild, but her tits are amazing."

"Well, with that glowing recommendation how can you refuse?" Liam asks, nudging Garrett off the bench. "Go now, grasshopper. Fuck and be free." Liam waves his hand in the direction of the bar.

"You're an asshole," Garrett mutters, shaking his head, and flipping Liam off before weaving his way to the bar.

"And another one bites the dust," I mutter, watching the impending train wreck with amusement.

"Mmm... We should cover that on this tour," Riley suggests, turning his attention back to the dance floor below.

"That's a good idea." I nod in agreement, draining back my beer.

Riley smirks at me. "Of course it is. It's mine."

"A stripped down version?" Liam asks, his fingers drumming out a modified beat of the classic Queen hit against the tabletop.

"It's a bass heavy song. We should ask G what he thinks," I suggest, watching as Garrett strikes up a conversation with the waitress.

"Too late. He's a goner." Liam raises his glass, shouting over the blare of the music, "Grasshopper! Drinks first, then fucking!"

Garrett shakes his head, ushering the very attentive waitress off the back of the lounge, away from prying eyes.

Over the course of the next several hours, we get well and truly wasted, as is typically the case on nights when we're not playing. It feel like I've drank my weight in Jack. The drinks keep coming, our glasses are never empty more than a few minutes, and Liam spends time antagonizing Garrett once he returns from his back alley fuck.

Riley attempts to entertain a barrage of woman at the table, but he's so trashed he can hardly hold a drink without spilling most of it down the thin material of the shirts every one of these chicks seems to be wearing.

I've completely lost track of time and space when I see Jasper moving like an apparition to the table. Jake's eyes meet mine in silent question and I nod my head. Jasper slides into the booth beside me, wedging me between himself and a pair of sorority sister from Alpha Gamma something or other. They claim to be political science majors, though what they're majoring in really doesn't interest me. I pretended it did, though. I'm getting very good at pretending.

"Looks like you're putting a dent in it tonight," Jasper says, stretching his arm across the back of the booth, and motioning to the bottles of Jack and beer that cover the table.

I lift my glass to him, managing a grin. "That's why I pay you so much, Jazz. You're a fucking genius." This earns me a round of giggles from the sorority girls.

"You up for the meeting on Monday?" he asks, lifting a random beer bottle to his lips and taking a long swig.

The room spins slightly, and from somewhere far away, I hear Liam's distinctive howl. "Remind me again?"

"Jesus, Cullen. I've only texted and emailed you a dozen times already. With the charity group? You know, the relentless hard-asses that haven't stopped calling all fucking week? They're like dogs on a goddamn bone."

That rings a bell, and I tap his temple. "Right. I'll be fine. You know me."

"What's this one?" I turn to find the blonde sorority girl sliding her fingers over the skull tatt on my bicep. Even as drunk as I am, I know what it is. Political science major, my ass.

"It's a skull," I say, though my voice is sounding slower than normal. I set my glass down on the table, feeling overheated and like I really need some fucking air.

"It's really pretty," she says, almost in awe.

"So are you, sweetheart," Jasper says, leaning across me. "How about we get out of here? Take this back to the hotel? What do you say, gorgeous? You can bring your friend here."

It's like I'm watching the entire conversation from somewhere outside my body. Voices are echoes, my feet are suddenly moving, and Jake is beside me. I slide my arm around the blonde and somehow make it down the stairs and through the bar with Jake cutting a path in front of us.

Flashes of light almost blind me when we step onto the street. My name is shouted from a group of fans or photographers, or both. I'm too fucking trashed to know. I feel Jake push me into the back of the Hummer, and in the process, I climb clumsily across the seat, almost landing on my ass on the floorboards.

I hear Riley crack up beside me, and then the Hummer takes off, leaving the flashes, the confusion, and the liquor behind. The only problem is, I think there's more where I'm headed.

\m/

_**Bella**_

"Jeez, Jess, what's the hurry? You got a fire to put out or something?"

She fixes me with a classic Jessica Stanley Stink-Eye before flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Funny, B," she drawls. "Are you going to keep up with the fireman jokes all night? Because I guarantee that they've heard them all."

She's currently hauling my ass down the street toward a popular tapas place to meet two of the firefighters from the station near her coffee shop. She has been flirting with one of them, Seth, for weeks now, and after they had lunch yesterday, decided dinner was the next step. And, of course, she decided she 'needed her best wingman' with her. Although I don't understand her drive to keep setting me up on these random blind dates, I have to say that I appreciate her efforts this weekend. This week has been so…odd…with its sleepless nights and pervading restlessness, that I welcome the chance to shake it off with an evening of fun that has nothing to do with my job, fawning CFOs, or enigmatic rock stars.

"What time did you say we'd been there?" I ask, struggling to keep up with her rapid strides. Maybe these sandals weren't the best choice for tonight. I tug nervously at the light blue peasant top I paired with my favorite blue jeans, holding it down so it doesn't fly up in the breeze.

"Ten minutes ago." She slows down minutely when she notices my fidgeting. "Relax, B. You look great…simple, but stylish. He won't know what hit him," she says, giving me an encouraging smile.

I roll my eyes, but can't deny the flutters of excitement I'm feeling. Jess is right—I need to get out more.

We round the corner and slow when we come in sight of the restaurant with two tall men standing outside. They are both easily over six-foot and dressed casually in jeans and button-downs with the sleeves rolled up. They smile broadly as we approach, and I gasp softly in appreciation of the muscles I see flex in their strong forearms. Damn.

Jess gives me a knowing smirk before giving blue-shirt dude a quick hug. "Sorry we're late," she chirps, and then steps back, waving a hand my way. "Bella, this is Seth and his friend, Jared. Guys, this is my best friend, Bella."

"Nice to meet you, Bella," Jared says with a warm smile, his eyes dancing over my form. His crisp white shirt contrasts nicely with his deep tan, and his blue eyes seem to sparkle. He extends his hand politely and mine all but disappears in his much larger one as we shake.

"Shall we?" Seth gestures grandly as he holds the door open, drawing a giggle from Jessica as she flits in front of me.

"Yes, let's," I breathe, smiling up into Jared's appreciative grin. "I'm starving!"

\m/

Two hours later, the four of us make our way leisurely down Fillmore toward Laurent's bar in the warm evening air. He has a band scheduled for this weekend that he made Jess promise we'd stop by to hear. Jess and Seth walk arm-in-arm ahead of where Jared and I are strolling casually side-by-side. I appreciate that he seems to be shortening his stride so I can keep up with him. He's over six feet tall and could easily leave me in the dust if he chose, something that a lot of tall guys don't seem to understand. It's a little thing, but it shows how considerate he is, much like how he held my chair for me in the restaurant. He even stood when I left and returned from the ladies room. I didn't know politeness like that still existed in today's world.

Dinner was delicious, and I found myself relaxing as both the wine and conversation flowed. Seth and Jessica did most of the talking, but that was fine. Jared hails from San Diego, but made the move to San Francisco three years ago to be with a girlfriend who broke up with him last year. Since then, he says he's been focusing on his work, and has only recently rejoined the dating pool. I notice Jess give me a quick grin over her shoulder before she whispers something to Seth, who chuckles. They seem to be quite smug over their matchmaking success so far, which my companion also notices.

"I'm never going to live this down," Jared confides with a chuckle. "He's been trying to set me up for weeks, and now that I've finally given in, I find myself wishing I hadn't wasted so much time."

"Oh?" I glance up to find his cheeks reddening in the glow of a streetlight.

"Um, yeah," he says, adorably flustered. "I mean, if I'd agreed when he first suggested it, I would have met you so much sooner."

It's my turn to blush and look away, a small smile playing about my lips. "Oh, well, we're here now," I stammer with a little laugh, feeling my cheeks heat even more when a grin spreads across his face.

"Yes we are," he agrees, and with matching grins and glances at each other, we continue down the street, close enough now that our hands brush occasionally. I like it.

During the week, Laurent's is the cozy kind of bar where you can sit and chat for hours over drinks or a bottle of wine. But on the weekend, the mood is turned up, along with the music. It's relaxed, yet sophisticated, with dark hardwood floors and warm ocher walls. Comfortable chairs and padded dark brown benches ring the dance floor and small stage, while tall tables and stools reside in the bar area. Upstairs, there are pool tables and dartboards, and more chairs at the railing that look down over the stage area.

We stand in line for only a few minutes until the bouncer spies us and ushers us ahead of the line, provoking a few indignant squawks from those left on the sidewalk. "Laurent would have my ass if I let you ladies languish with the masses outside," Karl, the bouncer, confides with a wink. He's a huge ex-rugby player from Australia whom nobody argues with, at least, not if they want to keep their head attached to their shoulders. We thank him profusely, and within minutes, we find seats at a tall table against the back wall. We're situated at the edge of both sections so we can see almost everything. We've barely given our drink orders when Jess is grabbing Seth's hand and hauling him to the dance floor.

"Wow," Jared comments, looking mildly impressed. "I didn't realize you girls were VIPs."

I laugh. "Trust me, this is the only place that happens to me. The owner is a friend. Jess and I come here frequently, but usually during the week when it's quieter."

"You're not much for clubbing, then?"

"Ah, no, not so much." I chuckle wryly. "I mean, once in a while is fine, but usually I prefer to hunker down with a good book or a movie."

He nods in approval. "Yeah, me too. This place is nice, though," he says, leaning closer to be heard over the music.

"Laurent has made a bit of a name for himself as a live music venue," I say with a touch of pride. My friend has worked hard to build his business, and he deserves any success that comes his way. "You'll never see a deejay playing the usual techno-dance music here. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but he believes in supporting live musicians. He says nothing beats the energy of a live performance."

Tonight's offering is an alternative rock band out of Santa Barbara with a guitarist, bassist, and drummer, but in addition, a trumpeter adds bright horn licks to the funky beat. The bassist doubles as the vocalist, and his deep, throaty voice floats above the crowd gyrating to the irrepressible rhythms. I find myself bobbing my head to the beat.

"Isabella! You're looking good, girlie." I look up to see a man with smooth coffee-colored skin and a huge grin following our server as she makes her way to our table. His short dreadlocks radiate up from his head like a chic starburst. He gives me a quick hug as our server deposits our drinks and scurries off.

"Jared, this is our host, Laurent Dupuis." They shake hands, and Laurent stands a little straighter, his tight t-shirt displaying his well-muscled chest as he sizes up my date. Jared takes his scrutiny easily, which seems to impress my friend.

"Any friend of Isabella's is a friend of mine," he affirms with a wink my way that triggers my blush. "Where's your partner in crime?"

I wave a hand toward the dance floor. "She's working up a thirst. She'll be sorry she missed you; I think she wanted to find out more about this mystery man you've been seeing."

He smirked at my teasing, but I could tell there would be no big reveal. "Ah, but you know how I enjoy my mysteries, beautiful Bella," he says with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "Enjoy yourselves; I'll tell your server that the next round is on me." With a mischievous wink, he heads back toward the bar.

"Nice guy," Jared comments, and I nod in agreement.

"He's the best. He—"

"Oh! Did we miss Laurent?" Jessica interrupts, appearing out of nowhere with a slightly winded Seth trailing behind her. "Damn!"

"He may be back, but prepare to be disappointed," I advise with a smirk. "He's doesn't seem inclined to spill about his current affair."

"Never underestimate my powers of persuasion," she retorts, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. Seth coughs into his hand, looking a little embarrassed, and I wonder in what ways he's experienced her 'powers'. Actually, scratch that—I don't want to know.

"Well, now that they're back to guard the table, would you like to dance?" Jared smiles and holds out a hand in invitation.

"I'm not much of a dancer," I warn with a wry smile as I take his hand. "But if you don't mind a couple of trampled toes, I'd love to."

He laughs. "Hey, I deal with dangerous situations for a living. I think I can handle whatever you can dish out."

The next few hours fly by. We talk a lot and dance a little more. I wasn't kidding; dancing is definitely _not_ my forte. However, Jared handles my missteps with aplomb, and I enjoy myself more than I'd expected. I sip my peartini and listen as Jared talks about life as a firefighter. He has an easy way about him that I find appealing. Not as appealing as a certain green-eyed guitarist, but certainly more accessible and—let's face it—realistic. He laughs often and isn't afraid to make fun of himself. He and Seth have us giggling over stories of their cooking for the other guys on their shift, including one Thanksgiving when Jared had accidentally used baking soda instead of cornstarch in the gravy, resulting in a foamy, fizzy mess.

"I honestly think the other guys try to switch shifts now on the weeks I pull kitchen duty, just to avoid my cooking!" He barks out a laugh as Seth confirms his suspicion with a sheepish nod.

Jess suggests another round and I'm about to agree, but instead I quickly slip a hand over my mouth when a yawn threatens to break through. "I'm sorry," I apologize, but Jared shakes his head gently.

"Don't worry; it's late," he says quickly. "If you'd like to leave, I'd be glad to walk you home or get a cab."

Jess smiles into her drink at his eager offer; she's no doubt congratulating herself again. I'm never going to hear the end of it. Ignoring her smug smirk, I smile at him. "Yes, please."

After settling the bill and saying our goodbyes—I roll my eyes at Jessica's whispered assurance that she'd slipped some condoms into my nightstand—we weave our way through the crowd. We catch each other heaving sighs of relief as we step outside, and share a chuckle. "I love Laurent, but that crowd gets to be a bit much after a few hours," I admit as we begin walking toward my apartment. He hums in agreement and politely steers me away from the line of people still waiting to get in.

We chat about this and that as we stroll down Fillmore. He seems genuinely interested in my work, and doesn't seem to mind when I get carried away talking about it. Most guys tune out after a few minutes.

"What do you like most about your job?" he asks after I finish describing a particularly complicated wish of one fifteen-year-old girl who was an honor student despite her leukemia, and who had wanted to spend the day with Vice President Biden. The security requirements alone had nearly driven me mad.

"Without a doubt, it's the look on the faces of the recipients and their families," I answer immediately. "Whether it's a big wish or a small one, the joy and amazement on their faces when they get to meet their favorite race car driver or step on that plane to Hawaii make everything worthwhile. All the tedious fundraising dinners and hours spent applying for grants fade into the background. These kids go through so much. Hospital stays instead of vacations, and draining medical treatments instead of birthday parties. Then there's the emotional and financial strain on the families…"

My voice trails off, and I take a deep breath to center myself, realizing I've stepped up onto my soapbox. "Sorry—I get carried away. Suffice it to say that anything I can do to make their burdens lighter and provide a moment's respite is well worth the effort," I conclude, somewhat sheepishly. But he shakes his head and gives me an encouraging smile.

"Please don't apologize. You're obviously passionate about what you do, and you _should_ be," he asserts. "What you do—it's amazing, really."

I shrug, embarrassed by his praise. "I'm lucky I have such an amazing staff. They're the ones who do the heavy lifting. And you—that's _truly_ amazing." I smile and shake my head in admiration. "I would never have the nerve to run into a burning building, and you do it every day. You've saved people's _lives_. You're a hero, Jared."

He chuckles self-consciously, and then gives me a smirk. "Well, not _every_ day. It's not all burning buildings. Usually, it's mundane stuff, like someone getting stuck while cleaning their chimney." After checking the traffic, we start across the street. "I love my job, but I'm beginning to think about the future, too," he says. "I'd like to take the lieutenant's exam one day, but if I got it I'd probably have to move, and I like where I am. So for now, I guess I'll just—"

He breaks off as a disturbance down the cross street draws our attention. There's a crowd gathered around the entrance of one of the city's elite dance clubs; I've never been inside, but from what I've heard, it's not anything that interests me. It's all flash and dash with exorbitant prices. The crowd of people still waiting to get in at one a.m. isn't unusual, but from the squeals and camera flashes, it's obvious that something else is going on.

A black Hummer waits at the curb where the crowd is swarming. I roll my eyes; only assholes with more money than sense drive Humvees in a city like San Francisco. Suddenly, the screams and flashes escalate and through the crowd, I see several—men, I think—stagger from the club, making a beeline for the Asshole-Mobile. One head, taller than the rest, looks familiar, but… Another guy falls and hits the pavement, causing a spike in the decibel level, before hands reach out to haul him in the vehicle. Then the car door slams shut and the giant thing races off, taking the corner where we're standing so tightly that both Jared and I jump back against the building.

"Jesus," Jared murmurs, glaring after the glowing taillights as they disappear around another corner down the block. "What a prick. Are you okay?"

"Yes. Did you see who it was?" My heart is racing from the near miss.

He shakes his head. "I heard that Zac Efron is filming in town. Maybe it was him," he muses. "Regardless, I hope the jackass who was driving gets a ticket."

The crowd left behind is chattering and laughing, still excited over their brush with fame…politics or sports or whoever it was. Whatever. I turn my back on it all and smile up at the handsome hero by my side as we resume walking. He's tossing me more than a few admiring glances, and I can't help my grin when I feel the faint flutters of excitement stir in my stomach. I've forgotten what it feels like…the flush of exhilaration of being with an attractive man who genuinely seems to like you, and the anticipation of what may lie ahead.

I like it.

"Well, this is me," I say when we reach my apartment. For a second, I panic. Should I ask him to come up? I mean, it's not like I've never been with a man. I'm not a monk, no matter what Jess thinks. But, this feels different from the casual dates I've had these last few years. I haven't had a boyfriend since Paul and I ended, and I don't want to screw this up before I have a chance to see where it may go.

He walks me up the steps and into our small foyer; I feel a burst of relief when I see that Gus, our elderly doorman, is away from his post, giving us a moment of privacy. "Bella, I've had a really good time." He steps closer and places one hand on my waist, as he did when we were dancing. My heart starts racing, and I look up as he cups my cheek. "So have I," I whisper, smiling invitingly. I'm not going to ask him up tonight, but a kiss…oh yeah, I can definitely do a kiss.

He hesitates, looking adorably nervous, before leaning down, pressing his lips to mine, and…

Nothing. His lips are soft—too soft. There's no…substance. I try to lean into the kiss, but there's nothing there. There's no resistance, nothing to work with. There's not only no fireworks, there's not even a spark. It's like kissing a new sponge fresh out of the wrapper—pliable, but lifeless.

All the wonderful anticipation and excitement humming through my body abruptly fizzles. I pull away and bite back a snort because his eyes are still closed, and he's humming as if he's savoring the finest wine. Well, at least _he_ seems to have gotten something out of it. I manage to tamp down my disappointment and plaster a smile on my face just as he opens his eyes. He looks delighted.

"Wow," he breathes, and lightly leans his forehead against mine. "You're amazing."

"Um, yeah…wow," I echo, somewhat listlessly. He steps back and releases me, looking at me hopefully.

"I hope I'm not being too forward, but do you have plans for Tuesday night? It's my night off. I know it's a workday, but maybe we can just get a quick bite somewhere for dinner or dessert?"

"Oh, um, Tuesday…let me think," I stammer. "Actually, I'm not sure if Tuesday will work. But let me have your number, and I'll let you know."

He beams at me and takes my offered phone, quickly punching in his number. He presses send, and his own phone rings. "There, now we're set," he confirms. He leans down and, before I can react, I'm treated to a repeat performance of the Limp Lip-Lock. Determined, I redouble my efforts and pucker a little more, moving my lips against his, to no avail. A sense of helplessness swells within me when it becomes apparent there's nothing I can do to coax a more animated response from him. But I return his smile when we break apart, and I walk backward slowly toward the elevator.

"I'll call you about Tuesday," I say brightly. "Good night, Jared, and thank you for a wonderful evening."

"G'night, Bella. Sweet dreams." He turns and steps back outside, smiling back at me over his shoulder. Giving him a perky little wave through the glass door, I finally escape into the tiny elevator, letting out a vast sigh of relief as soon as the doors close.

"Damn, damn, damn," I groan, banging my head lightly against the doors. He's smart, polite, handsome, and a good dancer. So what if he's a crappy kisser? It's not the end of the world. It doesn't necessarily mean he'd be bad in the sack, does it? Not that I'm planning to jump right in bed with him, but still.

Once I reach my floor, I trudge down the hall to my apartment and enter, locking the door behind me. I dump my purse and keys on my kitchen table and immediately move to pour myself a glass of wine in the kitchen to give my mouth something to react to. Maybe it would have been better with a little tongue? On the other hand, tongue might have only made it limp _and_ wet. Ugh.

Feeling frustrated and forlorn, I take my glass, curl up in my ancient, plush wing chair, and sit in the dark, staring out at the city lights. There's more to life than passion, Bella, I tell myself. I had passion once upon a time and look what that got me. I shudder, pushing the horrific memory back. Yeah, passion is definitely overrated.

I frown out at the night. Jared is a lovely man who seems genuinely interested in me. Don't I owe it to myself to give the guy a second date? I mean, I shouldn't be too hasty. For cripes sake, he _saves lives_ for a living. What more could I ask for?

So, why does a part of me feel like I'm settling?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter End Notes<strong>

What do we think? Should she give Mr. Limp Lip-Lock another chance?

Up next in two weeks, a meeting at the Fairmont. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it?

Twitter: LatteCoug , CarLemon


	5. Chapter 5

Merry Christmas, and thanks to all those who are reading and reviewing. Mandy, this is for you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

_All you're doing is chasing the first buzz. It's like you're chasing that head, that high, and you can never quite get to the same place as you did the first time. And the more you give it, the more it strangles you. – Steven Tyler_

_**Edward**_

I am in hell, where they play Flight of the Bumblebee over, and over, and over again. It's muffled and sounds like it's coming from somewhere far away, but still, it's torture to the fucked-up state of my head right now.

"Shit, shit! Double shit!"

A panicked, whispered, and I find highly amusing female voice reaches in and pulls me from the darkness. The marching band intent on keeping me awake for the last several hours has quieted somewhat. I stretch my legs out on the plush sofa and crack an eye open, peering out to the awe-inspiring San Francisco skyline.

Jake's form is evident on the terrace, and in a rare display, he looks relaxed as he sits in a lounge chair, peering out over the city.

The annoying ringtone slices through the solitude of the vast living room, and I can't help but grin. The song is ridiculous, and why the hell would anyone use it?

There's a flurry of activity from across the room, something being dropped on the piano. I hear a series of jumbled and erratic notes, but it stirs something deep inside me. I can feel it twisting and building…a new song calling me to the piano for the first time since the accident.

There's a frustrated huff, and then finally the ring tone silences.

"Mom!" It's a whisper-yell from the same woman's voice, and I slowly lift from the cushions to peer over the top of the couch from behind my sunglasses. "You're on speaker, but I can't talk right now!"

"I just don't know where all this uptightness comes from," another female voice complains through the phone. "Even your father let's his hair down once in a while now. Tell me, how are things in the love department?"

"Mother, I'm not uptight!" I take a scan across the room, and the woman slowly swims into view. She's leaning against the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys, her dark hair swept up to expose her neck. I drop my eyes over the back of her well-put-together black suit. A fitted blazer hiding her ass, and a conservative knee length skirt, with black stockings—at least they are in my mind. The shoes give me pause. They're high and black, and really the only thing I can see that would put into question the uptight description I heard being bellowed from the phone. "I'm the director of a well-respected, multi-million dollar charity. How long do you think we'd keep that respect or those millions if I walked around yapping about my sex life all the time?" She's clearly irritated, and I find it extremely entertaining.

Charity...Ah. It's all coming back to me now. The meeting with the charity that Jasper has reminded me of no less than twenty times since yesterday. Yesterday, when I was barely lucid and woke up in the empty Jacuzzi tub. At least I was alone and didn't have to deal with some nameless woman I'd never see again. Alone is good. Alone is fewer problems and potential fuck-ups.

"Ah-ha!" the echoed female voice crows triumphantly. "You _do_ have a sex life! Tell me all about it, dear. Does he treat you well? You know, satisfies you—"

I watch as she presses a button on her phone, effectively ending one side of this extremely amusing conversation.

"I can't talk to you right now. I'm about to go into a meeting." Her fingers trail the curve of the piano, and from deep inside, I hear another few chords beckoning me over.

"Because I'm nervous and..." Her voice trails off as she listens to whatever is being said on the other end of the phone, and I get a minute to appreciate the curves of her body—real curves—not plastically enhanced.

"I know I'm never nervous. It's just... You know what?Never mind. Is something on fire or is someone dead?" She lifts her bag from the keys of the piano, and I shut my eyes as the melody starts to form.

"You called me to set me up? Mom!" I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the notes that are tempting me, but her conversation is too damn distracting to focus.

"How many times do we have to—" Her voice cuts off again, and I open my eyes to watch her once more. Clearly, her mother is source of frustration. She's wired tight, this one… I can tell.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake move to the door, his eyes trained on the woman, ready to take her down if need be. I hold up a hand, silently stopping him, placing my finger over my lips.

"What kind of a name is Reese? Did his mom eat only peanut butter cups or something when she was pregnant?"

She stares up at the ceiling, shaking her head and looking beyond annoyed. "We can talk about this later. I have to go. "Another pause as her eyes move back to the piano." I love you too." I watch her shoulders sag as she presses a button on the phone, and tosses it back into her bag, before sinking to the piano bench.

I'm up and off the couch, crossing the room to the piano before I can stop myself. I can feel it tempting me, begging me to play. I slide in beside her on the bench my fingers stilling over the keys. I hear a sharp intake of breath and then, "Oh! I'm so sorry. I had no—"

"Shhh..." I interrupt her, and closing my eyes, I swallow back the lump in my throat. It's the first time I've been at the piano since we buried Al—. I pause, trying to focus, and I wonder if it's ever going to not hurt when I think about her. She loved when I played. She always said it was where I wrote my best songs. She used to sit and watch me, offering her honest and unique commentary on whatever it was I came up with. I clench and unclench my fingers, my heart racing. This is pretty fucking huge in the grand scheme of things for me.

"I'm just going to leave—"

"Stay right here." I feel the tension release from my shoulders, brushing my fingers across the keys, igniting my adrenaline.

"I don't—"

"Just a minute of quiet. Do you have a recorder on your phone?" I ask, seeing the notes slowly come into view behind my closed eyes. "Yeah... that's it." I start playing slowly as the melody finds me like it always has. It's the one thing that never fails. The one thing I can always trust.

"A what?" Her voice is whispered, and it fades the next notes slightly.

"Shhh!"

"But you asked—" I squeeze my eyes tighter, willing the notes to come back to me, as the familiar energy starts to pump through me.

"Oh my fucking God, woman. A minute of quiet, please. Just record this. However you can."

I play the same few chords, feeling her stiffen beside me, and hearing a little huff of aggravation. "Okay. I'll video it. Will that work?" she whispers.

I nod slowly, feeling the melody take me into the first chorus of the ballad. "Something to write on when I'm done?"

"Um... This?" I finally open my eyes as she thrusts a file folder in front of me. I see my name on the tab at the side, along with another underneath it. Parker Jensen.

"Perfect. Start recording." I play the simple melody that will end up being the foundation for the song. I don't know how many times I repeat the chords, altering and weaving with it when it wants to take me somewhere else.

It's euphoric to play the piano again. I forgot how much I missed it, or maybe I always knew, and was just avoiding it. I'm getting very good at doing that these days.

The words come spilling out of me as I hit what will be the chorus.

_Holding on to that last thread, you're nervous but so am I  
>I'll be there to catch you when you fall, you know it's not a lie<br>If you let me take your hand, I'll wrap you in my arms  
>And I'll make sure you're safe tonight underneath a thousand stars—<em>

"Fuck!" I lift my fingers from the keys in frustration as the lyrics fade off. "I fucking had it." I rake my hand through my hair. "I hate that." I turn to look at the woman beside me. "You know what I mean?"

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes lock to her big, brown ones. She looks like she's in shock, her mouth dropped open slightly as she stares at me in awkward silence yawns between us as I get a chance to really look at her. She's beautiful, and a complete contrast to the women I've been spending time with features, perfectly full lips, a natural color blushing her cheeks. She's real in a way I don't get to see much these days.

"Sort of? I mean not with this, obviously, because that was just..." She pauses, her eyes searching my face. "I don't have words for what that was. But, I know it's frustrating when you want something, and it just doesn't... work out like you hoped."

I nod, thinking there's a lot more behind those words. "Yeah. That was kind of shit, wasn't it?"

Her eyes widen. "No! That's not what I meant. That was... amazing. A little sad, but amazing."

"Really?"

She nods, passing me the folder. "You should write it down, or whatever it is you do now."

"You think so? It doesn't sound cheesy? Alice would always..." I stop that thought before it goes any further, my heart stabbing me in the chest just to make sure I don't say her name again. I shake my head, take the folder, and set it on top of the piano. I can't go there right now. Not with the band striking up in my head again, and certainly not with a perfect stranger who probably thinks I'm certifiable at this point. "Pen?"

"Yes. Here." She fiddles around in her purse, holding one out for me. I give her a grin of thanks and take the pen, leaning over the keys to start writing.

"Thanks for this. How are you in here, just out of curiosity?"

A long few minutes pass before she answers, and I can feel her watching me, probably trying to decide if I'm a nut-job or not. "Jasper told me to wait in here. He's giving one of my colleagues the tour."

I lift a brow, continuing to write. "And you didn't want the tour?"

"No, but he said you were sleeping and to wait in here."

"I was trying to." I glance over at her with a smirk.

Her brows knit together. "You heard all of that conversation with my mother, didn't you?"

"Mmm... Want to talk about it?"

"No. And never again. I'm going to probably need therapy with the knowledge that you heard any of that," she mutters.

I chuckle, finishing off the lyrics on the folder. "So... I'm Edward Cullen." I hand the pen back to her, wishing there was more to write. But, this happens all the time. You have something, and then it's just gone. It might never come back, or it might hit me at four-thirty in the morning. You just never know.

She nods slowly, taking the pen from me, but says nothing. I lean into her slightly. "This would be the part where you tell me your name."

She shakes her head, brushing her hand over her perfectly smooth hair. It makes me wonder if she ever lets it down. Is she always this put together? "I'm sorry. It's Bella. I mean, Isabella Swan. I'm the Director of—"

"What's Your Dream. Yes. I know. Jasper said you were... let me get his words right. 'Like a dog with a bone,' I think he said."

She lets out a nervous laugh. "I know how to get what I want."

I lift a brow. "Is that right? And what is it exactly that you want?"

"Well, right now… You."

An unexpected shiver runs through me at her words that I'm quick to tamp down. Weird. I mean, it's not the first time I've heard a woman say that she wants me. "Bella. We just met," I tease. "I know you've probably heard a lot about the rock 'n roll lifestyle, but still."

She rolls her eyes. "Please. Like you're rock's biggest an angel," she fires back sarcastically.

"Mmm... I have my moments, so I've been told." I slowly open the folder, my eyes falling to a picture of a blond boy. He doesn't look very old. "Tell me about him."

"His name is Parker Jensen," she says, all sarcasm and playfulness gone from her voice."He's eleven, and he has leukemia." I shake my head, staring at the picture of him. He's so young. Life is fucking not fair sometimes. "He idolizes you. He's even learning to play the guitar."

I met her steady gaze. "Really?"

She smiles, a genuine one this time, and I know she's serious about her work and obviously connected to this kid. "Yes. He has all your records, posters...the whole nine yards."

"What would this entail, exactly?"

"If we go ahead with this, we'd decide that together. He'd like a day as a rock star. So, I was thinking maybe a studio tour, press conference, a little concert."

"_If_ we go ahead_?_"

Her smile fades, and she shifts away from me on the bench. Out of reach. Unattainable. "Yes. If."

"Why wouldn't we?"

"Well, to be honest, I'm not sure if your type of lifestyle is... healthy for him. He's in a very vulnerable place right now—physically and emotionally."

"What about my _lifestyle_ exactly are you worried about?"

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

"Well, to be honest, _Bella_. I think you do."

"Your partying for starters." She gives me a pointed look. "That sort of thing would not be tolerated when you're with him."

I can't help the scowl. "Of course not. Jesus Christ. Do you really think I would let a kid into an after party?"

"I don't know. But, pictures don't lie, and I don't have to tell you that the press has painted you in a rather unfavorable light of late—"

"You honestly believe photos in a fucking gossip rag?" I stare at her in disbelief, but she merely purses those enticing lips and continues without missing a beat.

"And if you do have a problem, I cannot and will not subject him to that."

"I do not have a problem."

Lifting a brow, she slowly reaches her hand to my sunglasses and pulls them from my face, her eyes hard and assessing as they blaze into mine. It's like she can see right into my soul. I blink back from the harshness of the light.

"Right. No problem at all," she scoffs, and sets my sunglasses on the piano. She shakes her head, standing from the bench. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time. Maybe you could just sign a few posters or CDs for him. He'd be over the moon."

"But that's not his dream."

"As it turns out, his dream is a bit of a nightmare."

And that's it. She's dismissed me within a couple of minutes. I reach out for her arm, stopping her forward motion. "This isn't what it looks like. I mean, half of San Francisco is probably hung over."

She doesn't seem to appreciate my attempt at humor and lifts a brow. "Not at one in the afternoon on a Monday."

"Listen, I want to do this the right way. I just need some time to get over this hangover, and I'll be okay."

Her jaw sets, and then she lays into me. "_Time_ is a luxury Parker doesn't have. I don't really think you understand how critical something like this is for him. He's tired and exhausted from spending most of his childhood in a hospital when all of his friends were outside playing and just being kids." She yanks her arm from my grasp. "He's in pain most of time, but when he can find the energy to do something, it's always the guitar he picks up. And when he can't? When he's lying in bed or getting treatments? He listens to your songs, and he smiles when he does, because somehow you make it better for him. The only time he's really and truly happy is when he listens to you. So you'll forgive me if I don't want to ruin this idea he's built up of who you are with the sad reality."

"_Sad reality_?" I feel the anger spike as I push up off the bench, towering over her. She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down.

"Yes, Edward. Sad."

\m/

_**Bella**_

Looking up into his outraged, but overly dilated and bloodshot eyes, a vast disappointment washes over me, making my heart ache.I had been so counting on this working, for Parker's sake. But, I've seen this same look too often before. I had deluded myself then, rationalized and ignored what was right in front of my nose; I won't make the same mistake now.

As devastatingly handsome as the man before me is, he looks like he's been dragged down a mile of rough road. Everything he's wearing, from his black jeans to his t-shirt under his misbuttoned shirt, is rumpled and dirty. Now that he's not sitting at the piano bench and hiding behind his sunglasses, he's swaying unsteadily on his feet and looks like he's having difficulty focusing on me. And he thinks this is just a regular hangover?

"My reality is far from sad, baby," he drawls, gesturing to our opulent surroundings with a smirk.

I turn and take a few wandering steps, glancing around at the beautiful piano and luxurious furnishings. I've never been in the Fairmont San Francisco's penthouse suite before, and if the circumstances were different, I would be impressed. Now, however, the extravagance feels hollow. "How long have you been staying here?A week? Longer?" Facing him again, I shrug. "You know, a single night in this suite probably costs more than three of Parker's chemo treatments."

His mouth drops open at my matter-of-fact statement, and he winces as if I'd slapped him. Maybe I did.

But, damn it, I just can't shut up. After hearing him at the piano, the once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of _Edward Cullen_ creating something, I know how incredible the experience would have been for Parker. And it's pissing me off that this guy just doesn't get it.

"You say the photos online lie. You say you don't have a problem," I continue, somehow managing to keep my voice even."And yet you just woke up in the middle of the day after a night—_nights_, probably—of partying. Your pupils are the size of dinner plates, your nostrils are red, and you're sweating buckets in an air-conditioned room. I bet you're still wearing yesterday's clothes. And, you're apparently thinking all of this is somehow acceptable because you're you. Did I get any of that wrong?"

Shock and even a little embarrassment flickers across his face, and I can see I hit my mark. But then, his eyes narrow, and he stalks toward me angrily, making me take a few steps back as he advances. "What gives you the right to judge me?" he snarls, green fire flashing in his eyes. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I have to breathe deeply to keep my own anger at bay. "I'm not judging you; I only call it as I see it," I say simply."I don't care if you throw your life away; your family and friends probably care, but I don't. You can drink, or snort, or inject whatever you want…you'll do it anyway, regardless of what I think. I will mourn the loss of your music, though, because frankly, I think your talent is amazing. You are incredibly gifted, Mr. Cullen." It's the truth, and the thought of him so negligently throwing that gift away only makes me angrier. "My concern, my _only_ concern, is with the children who come to me in the hope of having their dreams fulfilled, not dashed into a million pieces."

"Look at you; not a hair out of place, standing there in your uptight suit and wrapped in so much self-righteousness that your shoulders must bow from the weight." His voice drips with indignation and malice, and a frisson of fear runs through me as he continues to advance. "I think your mother has a point. I bet you've never really let your hair down, have you?Really let loose and enjoyed life?"

"Who the…_My_ private life isn't at issue here." I snap, my mortification that he overheard my conversation burning brightly again. My back bumps against the wall and, before I know it, he takes two quick steps forward and effectively corners me between the wall and a side table. My eyes widen as he lowers his face to within inches of mine.

"Isn't it? Maybe if you took a walk on the wild side once in a while, let you hair down a bit, you'd be more tolerant." His voice drops to a raspy purr, and I stiffen at his proximity. Sucking in a breath, I freeze as he reaches up and gently frees a tiny strand of hair from my chignon, rubbing it between his fingers. Despite the stale smell of cigarettes that clings to him, I also sense something musky and earthy about him that strikes a chord deep inside me. I swallow thickly and frown, willing it away.

"I can't afford to be tolerant when one of our client's wishes is at stake. Step back, please," I ask firmly, but he doesn't move. Instead, he carefully tucks the strand he'd been toying with behind my ear. His lips curl in a sensual pout.

"Your mother asked a good question. _Are_ you being satisfied? I bet you've never known what a man, a _real_ man can do to a woman. A man who can make your heart race, your toes curl, and your pussy clench… Have you ever felt that, _Isabella_?" he taunts, and I feel his hot breath on my neck. "Has a man ever made you clench with anticipation from just a look?"

I gasp softly as everything in me does just that, but I'd rather die than admit it. Who the fuck does he think he is? "You'll never know. Oh, and Edward..." I brace myself and look directly into his blazing eyes. "A real man admits when he's wrong."

His eyes burn, and he opens his mouth to retort when the door at the far side of the room begins to open. Immediately, Edward shoves away from me and takes three staggered steps back, just as Irina, Jasper, and the record label rep, Terry Someone, rejoin us. Terry and Jasper are oblivious; Terry has her face buried in her BlackBerry, and Jasper's staring at Irina's ass. But my colleague cocks an eyebrow, her eyes darting between Edward and me suspiciously. I simply straighten my shoulders and smile as if I wasn't just seconds away from either slugging or kissing him.

"Oh, Edward; you're awake," Jasper says, finally tearing his eyes away from Irina to smirk at his client. "This is Irina Baskov, Giving Director of What's Your I see you've obviously already met Ms. Swan..."

"Yes, we've already discussed Parker's case," I interject brightly. "Edward has graciously agreed to sign a few CDs and, perhaps, a poster."

Irina furrows her brow in consternation. "CDs would be fantastic, of course, but I thought…"

I glance at Edward, but look away quickly when I see him glowering at me. At least he's not refuting my statement. "Unfortunately, the band's schedule won't allow anything more," I say, letting my extreme disappointment seep into my voice. Everything about this situation is disappointing. I stroll over to the piano to retrieve Parker's file, stilling when I see the lyrics scrawled on the front in a strong hand.

_If you let me take your hand, I'll wrap you in my arms_

Beautiful.

I open the manila folder and, bracing it against the piano lid, carefully tear it in two. With one last look at the lyrics, I place that half gently on the music rack. It also contains the label with Parker's name; maybe that will give the wayward genius brooding by the sofa something to think about.

"So that's it?" Jasper brightens considerably. "That's doable. Edward would be glad to—"

Terry's head pops up from her phone as I shove the remaining file contents into my leather tote and slip the thin straps over my shoulder. "Wait, what?" she asks in confusion, looking between Jasper and Edward. "This isn't what we'd discussed…"

"So? He could sign some CDs, enough for some of the kid's friends, too." Jasper nods his shaggy blonde head, obviously warming to his idea. "And a few posters, and—oh, I know—how about a couple concert tees?"

"But we discussed this," the label rep interrupts,glaring at him. "It would be great press. And, it's perfect timing for the album."

"Unfortunately, Parker's timing is my priority," I remind her. The professional smile plastered on my lips masks my whirling emotions. I'm frustrated with Edward and appalled at myself for losing my cool and behaving so unprofessionally. Why did I goad him like that? My gaze lands on Parker's name taped to the ripped folder and my smile becomes wistful; most of all, I'm disheartened over not being able to fulfill Parker's dream properly. _Damn, damn, damn…_

I sigh quietly and look toward Edward, startling when I notice a huge man with a black t-shirt and blacker hair watching me closely from his spot nearby. He didn't walk in with Irina's group…shit, has he been here the whole time? Filing that away, I focus on Edward who continues to stare at me stoically. When he doesn't speak, I continue, "And, as I was explaining to Edward earlier, he doesn't have the luxury of waiting, I'm afraid." He squints at me from underneath the unruly mop of reddish-brown hair falling across his forehead, but I can't tell if it's in reaction to my words or his current 'hangover'.

"Well, Edward, if you've already agreed…" Jasper trails off, as both he and Terry look at their client with concern. He still hasn't spoken a word, seemingly content to let everyone talk about him as if he wasn't standing right here. I wonder if that happens a lot to him.

He nods, locking eyes with me. "Yes, certainly. Whatever _Isabella_ deems acceptable." His voice is soft, but there's a dark undercurrent that I can tell his manager and the muscle-bound bodyguard guy immediately pick up on. The bodyguard moves a little closer to him, while Jasper looks like he's trying to solve an advanced math problem…and failing.

Irina is watching me carefully. She knows that if I'm taking this route, I have a good reason. I can see the dissatisfaction on her face as well, but she immediately begins working out the transfer of the autographed items with Edward's manager and the rep. I busy myself by rooting around in my tote for my phone, half-listening to their a peek at Edward, I see that he's moved back to the piano, standing stock-still with a hand on its smooth surface, his eyes closed with the same concentration etched on his face that I'd seen earlier.

I'm struck with a sudden yearning, remembering those magical few minutes at the piano bench. I'd give anything to know what's swirling around in his head right now.

"Are you sure we can't work something else out?" Terry asks again as we shake hands all around…well, except for Edward, who still seems to be in a trance at the piano. Jasper notices my look and shrugs his shoulder. "Sorry—he doesn't mean to be rude. You know, musical genius and all that," he confides with a rough laugh. "They're on a different level."

I nod, smiling faintly. Apparently, entitlement is the rule, rather than the exception with this man.

How sad.

Jasper begins to escort us out to the elevator in the suite's foyer, but just before we exit, I remember. "Oh, the recording… Where should I send it?" I ask, holding out my phone.

"What recording?" Irina murmurs in confusion, but Jasper's eyes light up in understanding.

"Me. Here's a number you can use—"

"Wait," Edward commands, suddenly springing to life. He strides forcefully across the room, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for…I'm not sure what. But, he merely snatches my phone from my hand and starts entering digits.

"Edward," Jasper groans quietly, looking displeased. Edward ignores him.

"I trust her." He stares down at me, his eyes searching mine, and I take my phone from him. Securing it in my purse, the thought hits me…_I have Edward Cullen's phone number_. No one would believe me if I told them.

I nod and turn quickly, ignoring Irina, who's gaping at me like a fish. She manages to compose herself as we enter the elevator and turn to face forward, just before the doors close. The last thing I see is Edward, standing in the foyer with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and staring at me with troubled eyes.

* * *

><p>Chapter End Notes:<p>

Up in two weeks: An unexpected office visit.

We hope you all have a wonderful holiday season with family and friends. Until next year, rock on, friends.

XO Barb and Les

Twitter: LatteCoug, CarLemon

Page **11** of **11**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Welcome to 2015!**_ We wish you all a healthy and happy new year. Thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and recommending this little story. Let's see where this train wreck is headed. Mandy, this is for you.

* * *

><p>Chapter 6<p>

_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now. -Morrissey_

_**Edward**_

"Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on?" Terry asks, her voice laced with confusion. I actually feel sorry for her having to bear witness to the virtual train wreck underway.

The bass drum in my head hammers over and over as I grip the fallboard over the keys of the piano, feeling my own anger radiate through me. I close my eyes, adrenaline surging through my veins, unable to sort out the raging emotions swirling inside of me.

She didn't back down. Not for one second. Outside of Jake, no one has spoken to me like that in a very long time. I feel like I've been run down by a truck. Brutal honesty, a balls-out call-it-like-you-see-it opinion isn't something you get very often in this business, or in life. The harsh, and in her words, _sad _reality she seems to see makes me sick to my stomach.

And the thing is, I don't think I look that bad. I've been worse, believe me. Way worse. If only she could have seen me Saturday night or Sunday afternoon, or whatever happened between those times. Her opinion of me is low now? Rock bottom is a stone's throw away.

"We dodged a bullet," Jasper says, his voice biting through the vastness of the room, making my head pound harder.

I turn to glance at him, feeling my jaw clench. "What did you just say?"

"Come on, Edward. You don't want to waste your time with some sick kid. This way, you can avoid all that, sign some posters, and we still get the press." He saunters over the piano without a care in the world, as if we're just talking about the weather, and not someone's life. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a carton of cigarettes, he taps the end of the pack on the piano, holding it out to me. He lifts his head in silent offering.

I knock the pack out of his hand, my eyes locked to his. "That's really all you care about, isn't it? The press. I'm just some meal-ticket for you," I grind out.

Jasper looks to the cigarettes now fanned out across the floor and then back to me like I've lost my mind. "Is this about the chick? Bella?" he asks, his brow furrowed. "That was a pretty stupid move, by the way. You gave a perfect stranger your cell phone number. Who knows where that will be by the end of the day. Hell, she's probably already Tweeted it out to the masses."

"She's not going to Twe—"

"Gentleman, as much as I'm enjoying this pissing match, can we please get back to—" Terry starts, only to be interrupted by Jasper.

"You just don't think sometimes, you know that? If you want the company of a woman, there's a line a mile long outsi—"

My fingers tighten to the point of pain against the smooth fallboard of the piano. "Get out." My voice is raw and edgy. I can feel myself slipping, and the only thing I can think about right now is how much I need a drink. I lift my eyes across to the bar at the opposite end of the room, a line of bottles calling out to me. My throat is dry, lips tight from dehydration, and she's right, I'm sweating. How fucking brutal is that? She called it, within a few minutes of meeting me.

I keep hearing her words on constant repeat in my head. _I don't care if you throw your life away...You can drink, or snort, or inject whatever you want_..._The only time he's happy is when he listens to you. _Over and over, gnawing at me. "Get out." I repeat the words, tearing my eyes away from the temptation of the bar.

Jasper turns his attention to Terry, waving his arm towards the far end of the suite. "You heard him. We'll get back to you with the plan in a couple of days." Terry's eyes widen as she looks between us in disbelief.

"I meant you, Jasper." My voice is acidic. I need him—I need all of them out of here.

I feel Jake's presence closer to my side, the tension hanging thick in the air. "I think you both better go," Jake suggests.

"You can't just throw me out," Jasper complains, leveling me a look of warning.

"Actually, I can. I'm paying for this suite. Me. Not you. Not your management company, not the record label. Me. With money I made years before I met you. Get the fuck out."

"Do we need to talk about our contract again?" he threatens, the way he always does. It's the only piece of leverage he has. If only I could turn back the clock. _If only_... so many things I would change, most of which have nothing to do with him.

"No. We don't. I'm well aware of the contract, and nowhere in it does it say I have to stand here and listen to your bullshit. You're managing this tour. _The tour_, Jasper. Not my life." Jake shifts to place himself between Jasper and me, blocking my view of Terry in the process. I can only hear her heels clicking away against the hardwood floor as she makes a hasty retreat.

"Let's go, Jazz," Jake says, taking hold of his elbow.

I can see the panic in Jasper's face. He knows exactly what Jake could do him in the space of about five seconds, and with that knowledge, his entire demeanor changes. "Listen, I'm sorry, man. I know you're under a lot of stress right now with all the interviews and the tour. Why don't I make a couple calls, I'll get us some—"

Lifting the fallboard of the piano, I slam it down, creating a cacophony of notes that echo through the room. "Get out!" I feel the blood heat in my veins, pumping wildly and fueling the chaotic emotions currently raging inside me. My muscles tense, hand balled into fists as I watch Jake coax him to the elevator.

"I'll call you later," Jasper calls out over his shoulder. Always has to get the last word in. The two of them share some brief and deliberately hushed conversation, and I take the opportunity to plant myself behind the bar.

I grip the edge of the marble, my chest is heaving, sweat beading from my brow as I eye the glass bottles. Fuck what she says. I'm in control of this. One of the few things in my life that I can one drink to take the edge off.I lift one of the bottles of Jack toward me. It clangs against the others, earning Jake's attention as he makes his way over to me.

"How about instead of hitting the Jack, we hit the gym?" he asks, stopping directly across the bar from me.

I shake my head, twisting the cap from the bottle, the familiar aroma drifting up and taunting me. "Tell me when we were in the gym last."

Jake chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sure, it's been a while, but I think I can still take you."

I roll my eyes, lifting the bottle to my lips, my heart hammering as I feel the first drops hit my tongue. It's like I've been in the desert for days with a thirst that can be quenched by one thing and one thing only.

Jake's hand moves to the bottle, forcibly lowering it from my lips. "Come on what do you say? We'll go a few rounds."

My eyes cut to his as I jerk my arm back, my grip tightening over the neck of the bottle. "The only rounds I want are coming from this bottle."

"Edward..." His voice is quiet and void of the usual smart-ass tone he uses. "I'm asking you to try. Please."

Holding his gaze, I lift the bottle back to my lips, tilt it up and savor a few long, healthy sips. I welcome it all— the burn, the heat that radiates through my chest, the wave of calm that rolls through me.

Disappointment washes over his face. I seem to be pretty good at eliciting that particular reaction today. It's the same look Bella gave me, and with that thought, I take another pull from the bottle.

He rakes a hand through his hair, turning from the bar and moves slowly across the room. Gone is the commanding presence he typically has, replaced with an air of defeat. I can't afford to lose Jake. He's one of the only people left I truly trust.

I place the bottle down beside the others, the words leaving my mouth in a rush. "Which gym?" He stops mid-stride, turning back to me with a raised brow. "I mean, I can't exactly just show up downstairs and hop on the treadmill. You'd have a riot on your hands."

He grins, and I see something I haven't in a long time. Hope. "I know a guy," he says slowly, eyeing me cautiously.

My index finger traces around the lip of the bottle. "Of course you do."

\m/

"Come on, Cullen!" Jake has barely broke a sweat, and currently looms over me with that annoying grin I only wish I could wipe off his face. I'd be the one sprawled out on the floor of an aged and stinking boxing ring for about the twentieth time.

If it's possible, I'm sweating alcohol, and while Jake tells me it's a good thing, I feel like shit. My hands are currently clammy and wrapped in a protective lining of tape, and further, the leather boxing gloves he insisted I wear. Can't have the musical genius injuring his most prize possession, I think were his exact words.

Jake, of course, doesn't need gloves. He's doing just fine delivering kidney punches with his bare hands, thank you very much. I'm going to feel this for days—bruises on top of my bruises. I also know he's going very easy on me. Jake could pulverize me if he wanted to.

It's a bit shocking how weak I actually am. We used to work out quite a bit back in the day. A few times a week- weights, sparring, running. It's a good way to pass the time, and when I was first starting out, Lord knows there was a lot of time to pass. Everything was different then. I could go to the gym or out for a run, and no one really knew who I was. You don't realize the power of anonymity until you no longer have it.

I'm also slower— a lot slower in this area anyway. Give me a guitar, things are very different, but trying to dodge Jake? Forget it. I'm the picture of pathetic as he reaches his hand down to me, hauling me back to my feet yet again.

I see two of him for a minute as I try to regain my balance. My legs feel like they did this morning-shaky and like they can't support my weight. And this is supposed to be an improvement over a hangover?

"Enough. You made your point."

"Did I?" He smirks, enjoying this way too much.

I surprise him with a right hook to his ribs. He winces only slightly, a satisfied grin firmly in place as I hold my arms out to him. He starts to work on the laces of the gloves, tugging them from my hands before going to work on the tape. I stand, a panting and sweating wreck, like I've just run four marathons or something.

"There may be hope for you yet, Edward."

\m/

Leaning against the railing that lines the expansive terrace of the penthouse suite, I take in the night as it falls over San Francisco. The private chef that is part of the price tag I now know could help fund at least one of Parker's treatments is busy working away preparing some masterpiece that Jake has dreamed up. I don't dare tell him I'm not hungry. I'll be surprised if I can keep anything in my stomach that isn't of the liquid variety.

For the bulk of the day, Jake has been intent on playing _Let's Keep Edward Busy_. He's pulled out all the stops— challenged me to a couple rounds of pool in the billiard room, thrown on Emmett's latest race on one of the plasma screens, tried to get me interested in the library, even not so subtly left the file folder of lyrics next to my phone.

I know he means well, even if it does feel like I'm being treated like a child. I also know it's because he doesn't trust me. He's not wrong. If left to my own devices, I know what I'd be doing. The temptation is just too strong.

I'm restless, and while I should be relaxing and enjoying these last few days of freedom before embarking on this whirlwind of a tour, I'm anything but calm. Even up here, in relative solitude, and a million dollar view of the bay, I'm keyed up and edgy.

I scowl hearing my phone buzz relentlessly from the table. Jasper just doesn't know when to leave it alone. Sinking down to one of the chairs, I lift the phone, furrowing my brow when I see a text message from an unknown number.

_Mr. Cullen. _I chuckle, immediately knowing it's from her. So formal, even via text.

_Attached, please find the video of your song. I hope the quality meets with your requirements._

_Our team will be in touch to arrange for the signing of the items for Parker._

_Please acknowledge receipt of this message so that I can delete the video and your number._

_Regards,_

_Isabella Swan_

I open up the video attachment, closing my eyes as I listen, hearing a few more chords pushing me to the piano once more. I'm up and moving inside, sinking down to the bench, setting the phone on top of the smooth surface of the piano. I pick up right where the video cuts off, the melody and the adrenaline taking me to where there are no expectations, no demands, no temptations.

I stop mid-chorus, pick up the phone, and return her text with one of my own.

_Don't delete the video or my number. Don't give up on me yet. — E_

\m/

_**Bella**_

Don't give up on him?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? I blink at his message in disbelief, my finger hovering over the delete button. Why would he want me to keep his number? Is this some sort of test?

Carefully, as if I'm defusing a bomb, I close my phone app without removing his info. I slump back into my comfy armchair, the melancholy I've been fighting all day—since my inauspicious meeting with the mercurial Mr. Cullen, in fact—enveloping me again. I don't understand that man at all. There's nothing to give upon. If he's not an addict, he's very close to becoming one. I can't let anyone like that around Parker. Besides, he made it _abundantly_ clear that he thought _I_ was the one with the problem.

My blood begins to boil again as I recall the arrogant tilt of his head, the smirk on his lips when he asked if a man had ever made me… "What an asshole!" I mutter, as I bring my wine glass to my lips. Who the fuck does he think he is? Setting my glass down again on the side table, I lean back to stare out my window at the night. It's quite obvious, Bella. He thinks he's an internationally known rock star who could probably get away with 's used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. Women line up around the block for this guy, hell, probably a few men, too. The people surrounding him do nothing but tell him how great he is all the time. No wonder he doesn't think he has a problem.

He's hardly the first celebrity I've ever met, but I learned years ago that rock stars are a breed apart. Film stars can be pampered and demanding, but the excesses of a lifestyle like his can be staggering. It would probably be difficult for anyone to say no for long when even the most forbidden temptations are constantly thrown in your face. And, the sycophants who latch on to them…well, they'd rather stick a fork in their eye than risk losing their plump, talented meal ticket by telling him or her the truth. At least until that ticket is spent, dried up, and on the skids. Then they move on to their next victim, er, 'client'.

I sigh pensively as I listen to the cars driving below my window. Is there anyone in Edward's life who will tell it to him straight? Does he have anyone who, at the very least, might suggest a shower and a change of clothes before a business meeting with a charity, for God's sake? Apparently not.

Still…even as wrecked as he obviously was, he was one of the most alluring men I've ever met. How can that be? Closing my eyes, I recall the feel of his warm breath against my skin as he loomed over me, of his fingers tracing my ear… _Damn_. A shiver runs through me, and I shift uneasily in my chair. That sense of seductive danger I'd felt just by looking at his photos in a file was magnified tenfold when I saw him in the flesh. The man should come with a health warning.

Laughing weakly, I shake my head in wonder, the surrealism of the day catching up with me. Already on edge in anticipation of the meeting, my conversation with my mother had flustered me further, so that when I first saw Edward emerge from behind the sofa, I was struck speechless for one of the few times in my life. He sauntered over to join me at the piano with an intensity that was captivating. Tall and lithe, his hips moving fluidly with each stride…and his hands! Those long fingers that floated over the keys, producing the most glorious sounds…

Groaning, I snatch up my wine glass and take another sip. God, I had probably sounded like an idiot. He must have laughed his ass off when he saw the recording; I'd been so nervous, I could barely hold the phone steady. It was just so sudden…one minute, my mother is trying to set me up with a pastry chef named Reese, and the next, a fuck-hot rock god is asking me to record something he's miraculously dreaming up at the piano. I'm normally cool under pressure, but…holy hell. Give a girl a break!

My phone is heavy in my hand, taunting me. Regardless of what he thought about my poor recording skills, he actually texted me back. But why? Why did he bother? I'd expected only a resounding silence. Is he waiting for me to text back? Is that how he thinks this works? He disrespects me, I insult him, and now we're text buddies or something? He must be high—again.

Instead of reopening his text, I tap my video app, and am instantly transported back to those few precious moments at the piano. I sink back into my chair, an unfamiliar longing coming over me as I watch the shaky image on the tiny screen. His commanding figure hunched over in concentration, his fingertips caressing the keys, his husky, smoky voice in the background promising to hold me under a thousand stars…

The ringing of my phone jolts me back to reality, and I'm surprised to find myself blinking back tears. What on earth is wrong with me? Fumbling with the phone, I answer without looking to see who it is. "Isabella Swan."

"Bella? It's Jared. I hope I'm not calling too late?" His friendly voice is like a cold shower, instantly dispelling any visions of angry, dangerous, seductive musicians.

"Oh. Oh! No, it's not too late," I sputter. Taking a deep breath, I muster up a more cheerful tone. "How are you?"

"I'm great. Um, I was just wondering if you'd had a chance to check your calendar for tomorrow?"

Damn, that's right. "I'm sorry! I completely forgot to call you," I apologized, mentally kicking myself. "I, I'm afraid I'll be working late tomorrow night, but…" Edward's taunting smirk suddenly dances in my mind, and I sit up straighter in defiance. I may not be a debauched rock star, but I'm hardly a spinster. "But, I'm free for lunch if that works with your schedule?"

"Really? That's great!" I can practically hear his grin over the phone. "Shall I pick you up at your office? You're near Union Square, right?"

"Sounds perfect." I quickly give him directions to the office and we settle on a time. "So, I'll see you then?"

"Definitely. I'm looking forward to seeing you again, Bella." His voice warms. "Very much."

"Me, too."I answer honestly. "Goodnight." I press end and sit, staring at my phone and feeling…actually, I'm not sure how I feel. I'm happy Jared called, but it feels a little…anticlimactic. Eh, it's probably just the gloom that's haunted me all day.

Well, that's enough of that, I decide abruptly. Sitting up, I gather my glass and carry it back to the kitchen briskly. "No more wallowing and mooning over crappy videos and impossible dreams, Isabella," I tell myself sternly. Right. The man was clearly delusional—not Jared, of course, but that _other_ one—and I don't do delusional. Moving purposefully, I plug my phone in to recharge in the kitchen so it won't tempt me further tonight, and make my way down the hall to bed. I have a busy day tomorrow. And, I'll have lunch with a wonderful, caring man who is obviously interested in me and, frankly, more my speed. And that will be that. So there.

\m/

"Have a good day, Hank," I call cheerfully to the gripman as I climb off the cable car. "And to you, get 'em, girl," he responds with a wink, before pulling back on the lever and sending the car on its way. Hank is somewhere in his fifties, looks like a linebacker, and is one of my favorite people. He's always got a kind word and a friendly smile to send the morning commuters on the Powell-Mason line off on a good foot.

I love cable cars. They're one of my favorite things about living in San Francisco. Each weekday morning, I walk a few blocks to catch the California line at Van Ness, and then change to one of the Powell lines to get to Union Square. It's a great way to start the day.

After stopping for a latte, I finally make it to my office and am surprised to find Angela lurking by Lauren's desk. "What's with the scowl? It's a little early to be in such a bad mood, isn't it?"

"What's with the Pollyanna smile this morning?" she counters, as she follows me into my office and begins pacing in front of my desk with strides only as long as her pencil skirt will allow. "After blowing a dream fulfillment, I'm surprised to see you in such a _good_ mood."

Grimacing, I set my latte on my desk and sit down to change out of my sneakers and into my pumps. "You've talked to Irina, I see. What can I say, Ange? The guy isn't appropriate to be around a terminally sick child. That's it. Besides, it's not blown completely. He agreed to provide some signed gifts."

"That's it? Damn it, B, I wanted it for a TV spot," she says irritably. Of course, Angela always seemed to be irritated about something, but still. "If Mrs. Jensen had given permission to use it, and I think she would have, it would have been perfect to run during the Grammy telecast."

I sigh, knowing exactly what she's thinking: shots of Edward and Parker interacting with guitars, maybe giving in a mini-concert at the hospital for Parker's family, Parker's face lighting up when he first sees his idol… Parker's well-being is first priority, of course, but Angela's job is to show the good work of the foundation to encourage more donations. I can't blame her for being frustrated. I'm frustrated, too.

"I have every confidence that you'll come up with something even better," I say decisively and stand up, now four inches higher than I was. Thank you,Jimmy Choo.

She sniffs delicately. "Of course I will." Turning to leave, she mutters one last complaint, "But it'll be hard to find someone as hot as Edward Cullen."

"Oh, for…" I grumble, rolling my eyes. "Call the Patriots, for crying out loud. Surely, we need Tom Brady for something." I smile to myself, hearing her blasé acknowledgement drift back to me, and open my email.

The morning flies by and before I know it, Lauren is calling to tell me that my lunch date is here. I stand and smooth a hand down my dress before grabbing my purse. It's a beautiful day, and I'm glad I opted for a sleeveless blue shift dress this morning. It's slimming and the scoop neck isn't too revealing, unless I bend over, so it's perfect for the office.

I open the door to see Jared's beaming smile. He's looking as handsome as I remember, in simple khakis and a white button down. "Hi. How was your morning?" he asks, while I bite back a laugh at Lauren, who's covertly giving me a thumbs-up behind him.

"Great. But I'm starving," I say with a smile. "Do you mind if we eat first, and then I can give you a tour?"

"Sounds good. I'm always starving." He laughs good-naturedly, and we head down the hall to the elevator. We wind up at a deli down the street for a thoroughly enjoyable lunch. Jared is a sweetie, and not bad to look at, either. More importantly, he's a genuinely good person who is fast becoming a good friend. It's obvious that he'd like to become more than a friend, but I'm not sure I'm ready for that. The memory of his less-than-fiery kisses lingers. I can easily overlook it for all of his good attributes. Kisses aren't everything, right?

A small voice in my head is trying to tell me that they are, but I successfully manage to squash it on our way back to my office. Instead, I burst out laughing in response to his story about how his crew had been called to a house on the pretense of a kitchen fire, but instead wound up needing to rescue a man who'd gotten stuck in a sex swing. "The guy was too embarrassed to tell the 911 operator what had really happened!" he explains, grinning at my giggles.

"I can understand why!"

"Say," he begins as we step off the elevator back onto my floor. "I have to work Friday and Saturday, but I'm off on Sunday. Would you like to go to dinner?"

"That's sounds nice, but I have to fly to New York Sunday for a meeting with donors. Then I go to L.A. Wednesday, and back here next Friday."

He looks disappointed. "Oh. I think I'm on duty that whole weekend. I'm not sure what my schedule is after that."

"I'll call you when I'm back in town and we can talk, okay?" I offer, and he gives me a small smile. "Maybe we can—"

As we round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks, my words dying on my lips. Standing like a stone sentry outside my office is the wall of muscle I'd seen in Cullen's suite yesterday. The behind her desk, Lauren is ogling the biceps bulging out of his tight black t-shirt, and looking like she's about to expire. But my eyes are glued to my open office door, and the vision standing just inside.

Looking tall, lean, and utterly edible, Edward is leaning with his back against my office windows, arms crossed over his broad chest, the picture of nonchalance. He's wearing a beautifully tailored sapphire-blue suit with matching shirt, looking the exact opposite as the last time I saw him. His auburn hair is in artful disarray, falling over his forehead carelessly, and my fingers twitch involuntarily. He's stunning. A sly smirk spreads across his lips as our eyes meet; I'm suddenly aware I'm gaping at him.

"Holy shit. Is that Eddie Cullen?" Jared asks in disbelief as I clamp my mouth shut. "Do you know him?"

"I, er, no… No, I don't, not really. He's agreed to sign some things for a dream fulfillment," I say, finally finding my voice. I manage to tear my eyes away from Edward to look up at my lunch date. "I'm sorry, Jared, but I need to go."

"Yeah, sure," he says, grinning widely at my unexpected guest. "This is so cool!"

"Mmm, yes," I mutter, glancing back at Edward. What on earth is he doing here? The smugness in his eyes infuriates me; impulsively, I crane my neck and kiss Jared gently on the cheek. "Thanks for lunch. I promise I'll call when I get back after my trips."

"I look forward to it." He beams warmly at me and brushes his fingers against the back of my hand. "Have a great trip."

I wait just long enough to see Jared get back on the elevator and then turn to walk to my office. Lauren snaps out of her bodyguard-induced haze long enough to sputter, "I'm sorry, B. I know he isn't on your schedule, but…" Waving off her apology, I give her an understanding nod before continuing into my office. Edward is watching me like a hawk through narrowed eyes, and I steel myself for what could be a prickly conversation.

"Mr. Cullen," I greet him coolly as I close the door behind me. "What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"

He takes a deep breath, seemingly taken aback for a moment before the self-assured smile I remember from yesterday slips into place. "I think it's what I can do for you, _Miss Swan_."

I fight back a flash of annoyance. Arrogant bastard. "Oh? I thought we'd settled matters yesterday. And, let me thank you again for your gracious donation."

His brow furrows briefly. "You're welcome. But, I wanted to talk more about that boy's dream. I thought—"

"Parker," I correct. "His name is Parker."

"Right. Parker." He purses his lips and shoves off from my window to take a seat on the couch opposite my desk. "You don't mind if I sit, do you?" he drawls, stretching an arm out along the back.

"Oh, excuse me. Please,make yourself comfortable." I take a seat behind my desk, feeling the need to have some kind of barrier between us. The buttons of his shirt collar are undone, allowing a few silky strands of his chest hair to catch the light streaming in my window. I clear my throat with difficulty."You were saying?"

"It's just that a few signed albums, or even one of my old guitars, isn't what that ki—Parker—wanted. The things you outlined, like a mini concert and whatever else, sound more reasonable. I could go along with that for you, er, for him. We could make it work."

I can't help the confusion that seeps into my voice. "Mr. Cullen—"

"Edward. Call me Edward."

"I believe we went over all the reasons this wouldn't work yesterday," I continue slowly, ignoring his interruption. "I understand, as your record label rep pointed out, that a full-on interaction with Parker would be very good publicity for you. But,I promise you'll still get some benefit from the signed gifts. Surely you understand that I can't—"

"Publicity?" The scowl I remember from yesterday makes a reappearance. "You think I'm doing this just for publicity?"

"Why else?" I shrug slightly."Most of our donors do so because of an altruistic urge, of course, but they're also usually getting something out of it for themselves or for their business. I don't blame them for it; I'm happy to receive help wherever I can get it. Very, very few people help with this work for the simple joy of giving, of knowing that they've made someone else's life easier, if only for a day."

He stares at me for a beat, frowning. "You'll take help where you can get it… just not from me?"

"Mr. Cullen, you _are_ helping, and I assure you that I _am_ grateful for your donations," I begin, treading carefully. The last thing I want to do is piss him off again. If he changes his mind, we won't have anything at all for Parker. "But it became quite clear during our meeting yesterday that my original ideas wouldn't be appropriate. It happens—sometimes things just don't work out."

He shakes his head gently and snorts in amusement. "Look, we clearly got off on the wrong foot yesterday. We'd had a party the night before, and I obviously took a little longer than usual to bounce back. I apologize for my appearance. Believe me, I've looked a lot worse," he says with a chuckle, as if being in withdrawal is some kind of joke.

"I don't doubt it."

His smile falters. "Well, I just wanted to show you…" Uncertainty flashes in his eyes, before his smug confidence returns. "I mean, since you seem to prefer a more, er, _conventional_ look…I can clean up pretty good, even if I do say so myself."

I peer at him speculatively, trying to look beyond his handsome face and cocky smile. His eyes aren't as bloodshot as they were, true, and his pupils aren't hugely dilated anymore. His clothes are impeccable, although I suspect they are wildly out of character for him. The suit looks a little big on him, as if he's lost some weight since he last wore it. However, his extreme pallor and the deep shadows under his eyes diminish the healthy façade he seems to want to more telling is his almost constant movement, the erratic twitching of his foot or hand. It's more than simple nervousness. I wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.

It's a painfully familiar symptom that I'm not going to disregard again.

The acute disappointment I felt yesterday returns as I look at him, and I wish he'd just let this go. "Mr. Cullen, as I was saying earlier—"

"And as _I_ said earlier, call me Edward," he interrupts sharply, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he looks up at me. "All this 'Mr. Cullen' crap is feeling suspiciously like a brush off."

I mash my lips together to still the sharp retort begging to escape. Does this guy really think that a nice suit, a little window dressing, would persuade me to change my mind? Does he think that little of me? Swallowing my irritation, I manage a professional smile. "I assure you that is not my intent. But I've already given you my reasons for why I don't believe that your participation in a more extensive dream fulfillment for Parker would be advisable. I don't see anything today that changes that opinion. I'm sorry."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I quickly stand, trying to forestall any impending outburst. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting starting in five minutes. Thank you so much for dropping by—I'll make sure our Giving Team contacts your manager today." Giving him a winning smile, I move to open the door, but he rises swiftly and intercepts me, blocking my path.

"I can't believe this," he growls in obvious frustration, raking a hand through his hair. "You'll really kill this kid's dream just because you caught me napping and hungover…"

My eyes narrow and I'm barely able to hold on to my temper. "I'm not the one preventing his dream. And, you weren't 'napping'. You were passed out on the couch in the middle of the day. But, you know what? I don't care whether you sleep on the couch, on the floor, in a bathtub, or in the gutter; it's not my business."

He sucks in a breath, before giving me a sardonic smile. "Hey, at least the tub didn't have any water in it."

Wait—he actually slept in a bathtub? Oh, right…like that's _completely_ normal after a night of partying. "I can't believe you'd actually admit that," I retort dryly. And he says he doesn't have a problem. "Do you even remember how you got there?"

He looks away quickly, the tips of his ears turning pink, before recovering his swagger. "You seem to be overly interested in where I sleep, Miss Swan." He steps closer, his spicy, musky scent surrounding me. "Why do you think that is, hmm?"

"I…I'm not," I sputter in barely restrained outrage. What is it about 'personal space' that this guy doesn't understand? "Mr. Cullen, my next appointment is waiting—"

"I don't get you," he bursts, startling me. He spread his arms wide in supplication. "Are you kidding me? Most people would do anything to have me associated with their organization. I'm Edward Fucking Cullen. Don't you know what I am?"

"Oh, I'm quite aware of what you are, Mr. Cullen. You're the one in denial."

"I don't have a fucking problem," he hisses, his eyes blazing, causing me to take a step back in spite of myself. But, I straighten my shoulders defiantly and stare right back at him. I'm not about to let this pompous ass push me around in my own damn office. "That remains to be seen," I say evenly."But until I'm proven otherwise, I cannot allow—"

"Who's the boy scout?"

"What?" I blink, confused by his non sequitur. He jerks his head in the general direction of the door and takes another step, crowding me. "That guy you were with. Is he your boyfriend?" His voice drips with disdain, and my eyes narrow in response.

"He's not a boy scout; he's a fireman. And it's none of your business who he is to me."

He chuckles harshly, sending a shiver down my spine. "So that's the kind of man who interests you. I should have guessed. Mr. Boring Buzzcut. Solid, dependable, stable…_safe_..." The breath catches in my throat as he trails one hand up my bare arm to my shoulder, setting my skin ablaze, before planting his palm on the wall beside me. "He doesn't look like he's ever colored outside the lines in his life."

"Why do you care?" I snap back, bristling.

He cocks an eyebrow in amusement. "I don't. But you seem so eager to judge me that I feel it's only fair for me to do the same to you."

I feel my face heat. "Do you honestly think a fancy suit and a shave is all you need to do?" I ask intently, frowning up at his beautiful and angry face. "Edward, you can do whatever you want when it comes to your own life. I don't care. But this kind of window dressing isn't going to fool me, and it won't fool Parker. Children are amazingly perceptive, and he's too fragile right now to be exposed to your bull—"

His raised eyebrow dares me to finish my sentence, but I rein myself in. My firm tone becomes downright icy. "Furthermore, my personal life is none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me."

He steps aside and gestures grandly toward the door, mocking me. Finally stepping to the door, I pause with my hand on the doorknob. "I'll make sure our team contacts your manager right away about those items. You'll be starting your tour soon, yes? I promise that we'll be out of your hair by then."

"Did you keep my number?" I turn slowly to find his eyes boring into mine, challenging me, and I'm immediately wary.

"Against my better judgement, yes, I did." I hesitate, suddenly afraid I've pushed him too far. "You haven't…changed your mind about donating the signed items, have you?"

His lips form a hard smirk. "Of course not. Despite what you obviously think of me, I stand by my word." Relief surges through me, and I don't even mind as he reaches past me to open the door wide. Muscle Man snaps to attention as Edward steps out and pauses, obviously for Lauren's benefit. "Oh, and Isabella," he starts warmly, as if he hasn't heard a word I've said, "Keep my number, too. You'll need it to call me after you've had a chance to reconsider."

My mouth drops open. Then, with one last cocky smile toward Lauren, he saunters confidently toward the elevators with The Hulk, leaving me silently seething and exasperated in his wake.

* * *

><p>Chapter End Notes:<p>

He just won't quit, will he?

Let us know what you think.

Up in two weeks, text messages from frustrating rock stars that frazzle you.

Twitter: LatteCoug, CarLemon


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to all of you who are reading and reviewing this little story. Onward with these two. Mandy, this is for you.

* * *

><p><em>Rock 'n roll keeps you in a constant state of juvenile delinquency. - Eddie Spaghetti<em>

_**Chapter 7**_

_**Edward**_

"You want to talk about it?" Jake asks as he sinks his hulking frame into the expensive leather seat across from me. We're currently flying somewhere over heartland USA, and the convenience of a private jet is not lost on me. I've worked my ass off to get to this point, where—finally—I don't have to fight the crowds, the paparazzi, and the ensuing mayhem that results when I've flown commercial. There's something to be said about not being subjected to shameless fondling on an enclosed plane. I love my fans. More loyal ones you'd be hard pressed to find, but I'd be lying if I said I don't need a break from the madness every now and then.

Unfortunately, this time the flight, which usually serves to calm me, is doing anything but. I'm a fidgeting, edgy, distracted bundle of sheer energy. And I blame it all on one Isabella Swan. I don't know when I've ever met anyone as stubborn as I am. I didn't think such a creature existed, but there she was today, testing me, throwing her opinions of my life in my face...taunting me, just daring me to prove her wrong. And the thing is, she doesn't think I'm capable of that. She really and truly believes there's no hope for me. I'm beginning to wonder if she's right.

"Talk about what exactly?" Jake lifts a brow, his eyes cutting to my leg that's currently bouncing with pent-up frustration.

"Do I really need to spell it out?"

"I need a fucking drink," I mutter the words as I eye the lure of the bar. Jasper grins in my direction, lifting a glass of some lethal cocktail to me. I turn away, looking out to the endless blue sky that stretches out in front of us. How many fucking hours do we have left?

"No. You don't need a drink. What you need is to talk."

"I've got a shrink, thanks. And even he doesn't do a lot to help, despite the shit-load of money I throw at him."

"Are you sure I can't get you anything, Mr. Cullen?" The hired 'attendant', hand-picked no doubt by Jasper, leans down to get eye level with me once more. Her voice drips sex, and her outfit doesn't disappoint. Tight, low cut top, barely there skirt, cheap heels that have seen better days—standard groupie attire. She'd actually be pretty if it weren't for the make-up factory currently taking up residence on her face, hiding who she really is. There's a lot of that in this business. People trying desperately to be something they're not, something that is deemed desirable. She reeks of desperation. I doubt she's even a flight attendant. She's here for one reason and one reason only. She wants the experience—the certified mile-high rock star fantasy.

I give her my best attempt at a thankful smile. "I'm fine, thanks." If she's disappointed, it's short lived. There are in fact three other rock stars on board. I'm reminded once again of just how shallow my life is. It makes me think more about the woman I can't seem to get out of my head. Despite the superior attitude and general disdain for me, I don't think deep down that's who she is. You don't devote your life to a charity like _What's Your Dream_ if you aren't at your heart, a compassionate person.

Even fighting a hangover, I could see how invested she was the minute she started talking about Parker. I know all about that kind of passion, though mine is found with a guitar. We have more in common than she realizes. The big difference is she's doing work that actually changes people's lives.

Liam lets out one of his trademark howls, and I can't help but smile. She'd have a field day with this group. I wonder what she's like outside of work. I'd like to know the answer to my question—whether she ever lets her hair down. I also wonder why I felt a pang of resentment when I saw her with that Boy Scout today. My fingers grip the armrest of the seat once more.

Jake waits until the 'attendant' is out of earshot before he sets in on me again. "What did she say to you this afternoon, hmm? You've been more of a pain-in-the-ass than normal since we left that office."

I shake my head, trying to ignore him. "Nothing I didn't already know."

"Come on then, mate. Party's just getting started over here." Liam's voice booms through the cabin, directed at me. Over the stale, recycled air, the scent of whiskey engulfs the plush interior of the jet, and it's never felt smaller. My mouth waters as I watch Liam wave the bottle at me, my fingers tapping relentlessly against my knee as turn back to the safety window.

"I'll get your guitar," Jake says, his hand falling to my shoulder as he moves out of the seat and to the room at the back of the plane.

It doesn't take long for Jasper to find his way over, a full glass of temptation in his hand, holding it out for me. "Looks like you could use this." Not a moment's peace. I should have made him fly coach on some packed commercial flight. _Should have..._

"I'm good. Thanks."

He lifts a brow. "Doesn't look like you're good at all, Eddie."

I want to tell him to mind his own fucking business. I want to tell him he's the one that doesn't look good, but I can't seem to find the words. The ice clinking against the glass catches my attention, and my eyes fix to the condensation beading along the side. My hands are clammy, and I press my palms against my thighs, desperate to find a distraction. It's always going to be this way—whether at the end of the day, I have a drink or not—it's always going to be there tempting me. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to resist it, and what's worse is, I'm not sure I want to.

Jasper lifts his chin in the direction of the rest of the band seated around the small bar. "Come on. Have a drink, take the edge off with the guys. Everybody is stressed out about this tour. You're not alone in that, you know."

Part of what he's saying is true. We all share this crazy ride, and nerves—the good kind—actually fuel us to drive harder, push the limits farther, and give the audience something they'll never forget. But despite the camaraderie we all share, if I go join them at the bar, I know exactly what will happen. It's what _she _expects to happen, and sadly, it's what I've come to know. It never ends at one drink these days. I wonder if it can.

Jake steps beside Jasper, shouldering him effortlessly out of the way, and making my decision an easy one this time. My Gibson acoustic, one of the few things I can actually count on in my life, appears in front of me, and my shaking hands know exactly what to do.

\m/

The texting begins once Jake has secured us in a state of the art SUV complete with bulletproof glass and tinted windows. Sometimes, I think we have more protection than the President, but Jake refuses to take chances, and I'm not going to argue with him. Some fans are certifiable.

My phone has been burning a hole in my hand since my guitar was packed into the accompanying van that holds the rest of our equipment. No messages from Miss Isabella Swan. Stubborn little thing. But, it's more than that. Her biting words, those big brown eyes, that air of defiance hinting at something lying dormant, just waiting to be unleashed…it's all been consuming me.

I stare at my last text message to her, asking her not to give up. An internal war is raging. If I go down this road…if, using her words, I try to prove otherwise, it's going to require total commitment. There is no halfway with her. It's all or nothing, of that I am sure.

But, I'm not sure if I'm capable, and I don't like that feeling. I've been doubting a lot of things lately though. Whether I'm getting too old for this entire scene, whether I've still got what it takes to be relevant in a business that is constantly changing. I can't seem to turn my mind off, the thoughts swirl relentlessly.

I try to get a grip, looking out the tinted window through my sunglasses. The streets of New York are alive and pulsing, blurring by as we wind our way to the St. Regis. Only the best for Jasper and the tour. With him riding shotgun, I take a look at this band of misfits surrounding me. They are feeling no pain, having demolished most of the alcohol onboard. I can smell it rolling off them in waves.

It's rather interesting to watch the train wreck when you're not on it. Jake is trying to tug Liam back into his seat. Typically, that would be easy given Jake's sheer size; but when Liam has his mind set on something, it's almost impossible to divert him. He's currently hanging his head out the window like a dog, letting out the occasional bark.

The 'attendant' is perched firmly in Garrett's lap, currently wrapping herself around him like ivy. Let's hope he hasn't proposed yet. Riley is passed out, sprawled across the entire back row and snoring away. And had this been any other day... if I had never met Isabella Swan, I'd probably be passed out with him.

Instead, I'm over-thinking, and weighing the pros and cons of actually trying to get my shit together. Is this really something I need to think about?

At the end of the day, it all comes back to the music. It's the thing that keeps me going when the world wants me to stop. Alice always used to say music was in my veins, that she couldn't imagine me doing anything else. She said that one day, I'd use it to change the world. Such was her unwavering support of me. She believed in me regardless of the fucked-up shit I would get into. I wish I could talk her now. I wish—

"T'was some good shit you were playing on the plane." This slur from Riley who, it turns out, isn't passed out after all.

I push his boots off the leather seat, and he groans a response. "You're loaded. I could have played Firehouse, and you'd think it was awesome."

He snorts, flipping me off, his arm landing with a thud on his forehead. His intense hate of second-rate Eighties hair bands is legendary. "Don't get me started, man...Fuckin' bunch of..." His voice trails off, the whiskey swimming in his veins winning the battle once more.

This is my normal, as fucked-up as is it. But, sometimes it's good to change things up. No more thinking, no more excuses. I pull my Ray Bans down, snapping a picture of my eyes, and start typing a message to Isabella.

_You want me to prove otherwise? Watch this space._

\m/

_**Bella**_

Slamming my apartment door behind me, I heave a sigh of relief and sag gratefully against the doorframe, completely exhausted. What a bizarre day. To go from a pleasant lunch with the affable Jared, to the astonishing standoff with the arrogant Cullen was jarring enough. Then, the afternoon was filled with grumpy board members and prickly donors I had to appease. To top everything off, Mike asked me out again after the evening wrap meeting. With a roll of my eyes, I knock my head gently back against the woodwork in frustration. How many times will I have to say 'no' before that guy catches a hint? I'm not going to date a coworker! Ugh!

I am so friggin' glad this day is over. Dropping everything in my arms—briefcase, coat, and grocery sack—on the floor, I march straight into my bedroom and strip. My most comfortable pair of stretchy, baby blue pajamas is like a whisper over my skin, and I instantly feel worlds better. The next step is predictable—a glass of wine from the kitchen. I leave the bottle open on the counter.

Jesus God, what a day. Taking large sips from my glass, I set about putting my few groceries away, reserving the juicy red pear that is to be my dinner. And a box of Cracker Jacks for dessert. I'll feel guilty about the processed sugar later.

I wish Jessica were home so she could distract me with stories of compulsive coffee-drinkers or shifty suppliers, but her fireman has the night off, so they are out painting the town. Since they'd reached the bedroom stage, with her usual alacrity, I barely hear from her.

Why did Cullen come to the office today, really? Is it just that he's heard the word 'no' so rarely that he simply can't believe me? Shaking my head, I refill my glass, gather my pear and dessert, and retreat to my comfy chair to look out over the street and passing cars. This isn't the first time a dream hadn't worked out for a client, far from it. But I can't recall another prospective donor who has been so…pig-headed. His manager was obviously relieved that Edward would only have to provide a few signed trinkets, so why is the man himself being so persistent? I growl in frustration and take a savage bite from my pear.

He says he keeps his word; well, he'd better, I think with a grim smile. Irina mentioned this evening that Cullen's team hadn't yet returned her calls to organize the signed items. My stomach drops, worry returning. If I've screwed this up…no. I nod, mostly to reassure myself. He'll follow through, if only to try to justify his anger with me.

Closing my eyes, I take another sip and savor the wine as I picture him standing in my office. God, the way that suit hugged his lean form, and the devilish gleam in his green eyes…holy mother of pearl. If only the inside was as attractive as the outside.

I'm startled out of my brooding by the staccato trumpet notes of Al Hirt's _Flight of the Bumblebee_, and I smile reflexively. It's the perfect herald for my mother, considering her frenetic energy and eclectic thought processes.

"Hi, Mom."

"Finally! I've been trying to get you all day," she bursts, and I roll my eyes.

"I hardly think one call in the morning, and another at noon constitutes 'all day'," I say dryly, but with a smile.

"Well, it felt like it. How are you? Are you dating anyone? Have you given any thought to my suggestion about Reese? When are you coming to visit?"

I start laughing and feel some of the weight on my shoulders lift. "Fine. Not really. Reese sounds like a candy bar. And, I'm thinking of coming next weekend after I get back from my trip. How's that?"

"Really?" Her excitement is almost palpable. "That would be perfect! We'll have your room waiting for you. We just have to move a few things around, but I promise you'll have a bed to sleep in."

"Are you using it for storage again?" I tease, although I really can't blame her. It's been months since I've been to Napa, and space in their bed and breakfast is at a premium this time of year.

"Just for a few cases of wine that couldn't fit in your father's cellar, and a few new quilts for the guestrooms. Really, the only thing I should probably move is our new tantric chair…it works best in your room since it's at the far end of the house so no one can hear us when we get kinda loud, but I suppose we could move it to our room—"

"Mom!" I squeal in protest, a horrified expression etched on my face. "God! Stop!"

Her merry laughter rings out over the phone. "Oh relax, Bella, you know I'm just kidding. Sheesh. Lighten up, sweetheart!"

Sighing, I rub a hand over my face. She probably is kidding, but with my mother, who knows? I wouldn't put it past her to talk Charlie into getting a tantric chair, and…good for them, I suppose. My parents have always had a very loving relationship that has lasted through thick and thin. But, it's not exactly the type of thing I want to picture, especially in the bedroom they've reserved for me. Eww.

Her last words, though, are uncomfortably similar to advice that someone else has given me lately. Someone who I wish I could stop thinking about. "Sorry, Mom. I've just had a really long day."

"Oh, sweetie, what happened? Is there trouble with that firefighter you told me about?"

"Jared? No, he's fine. We had a very pleasant lunch today, as a matter of fact. It's just…an unusual situation has developed with a potential donor," I reluctantly explain. I don't really want to talk about Cullen, and we do have confidentiality issues regarding our cases, but there's a nagging part of me that really wants to hear my mom tell me it will all be okay. "He's a, ah, a celebrity who won't take no for an answer."

"Wait, you're telling him he _can't_ donate? Aren't you usually trying to get people to donate?" she asks, understandably confused.

"Oh, he's going to, but not to the full extent that we were originally planning. I can't trust him to be around a vulnerable child."

She gasps. "Oh, Bella—should you report him? Is he a predator?"

"No! No, nothing like that," I quickly assure her, kicking myself at how I was making it sound. "No, he's…I suspect he's like…Paul."

My mother's silence speaks volumes. "Then you made the right decision," she says finally, her voice full of quiet certainty. "Trust your instincts, Bella. They won't steer you wrong."

I sigh pensively, reassured for the moment and remembering the many times in the past when she'd given me the same advice. I wish I'd heeded it back when I was dating Paul. It would have saved me a lot of heartache.

"I just hope that he'll stick to his word and provide the items he promised. I…I was rather blunt, and he didn't take it well."

"Addicts rarely do," she notes. "But, sweetie, you never have trouble with donors. I'm sure it's not as bad as all that. You're a professional down to your fingertips." The unmistakable pride in her voice warms me, until Cullen's infuriating smirk dances in my mind again.

"He's just so…so…_irritating_," I seethe, jumping up to pace in front of my window. "I don't understand why he won't give it up. I mean, you'd think he'd be relieved that he's being let off the hook, so to speak, in not having to spend more time on this. His manager certainly was. You know how it is—so many celebrities of his caliber are only interested in doing the bare minimum, just so they can brag about their involvement on Twitter. But, he's being so obstinate. He showed up completely unannounced today to badger me. Apparently, he thinks that because he's tall and hot and looks good in a suit that he can simply charm me into caving—"

"He's hot?" she interrupts with surprise. "I had envisioned some old crusty curmudgeon. Who is he?"

"Um, well," I sputter, caught off guard. "He's…it doesn't matter. I'll just have Irina deal with him from now on, that's all."

She hums, giving nothing away. "Well, sweetie, it is unusual to hear you so kerfuffled. What advice does Jessica have for you?"

"Oh, um, I haven't told her." I slump back down in my chair, feeling somewhat guilty. In truth, I've avoided talking to Jess about the puzzling Mr. Cullen, and I'm not sure why, which makes me even more uncomfortable.

My mother's gasp startles me. "What's wrong, Bella? Who is he? What did he do to you?" she asks with growing alarm, making me frown in confusion.

"What? He didn't do anything to me. What are you talking about?"

She huffs in frustration. "Bella, you tell Jessica everything," she says carefully. She takes a deep breath, as if to calm herself. "If you're keeping this to yourself, there's something wrong."

I close my eyes. "Mom, there's nothing wrong," I say reassuringly, not sure which one of us I'm trying to convince. "I'm sorry if I'm worrying you. Honestly—I'm okay. I simply haven't had time to tell Jess anything about anything lately, since she's so wrapped up in her new man." It's not really a lie; Jessica _has_ been scarce in the few days since I first met Edward in his hotel. Luckily, it's enough to distract my mother.

"Ooh, that's right! Tell me all about these new men in your lives."

I chuckle, glad to be on a safer topic. "There's not much to tell yet. Jessica and Seth are spending a lot of time together lately, and she seems to be pretty happy so far. Jared and I are taking things a little slower. He's sweet and cute, but I just met him, Mom. We're friends, for now."

"Sweet and cute? Well, that sounds promising—as long as he's good to you. That's the important thing." Then she chuckles mischievously. "Of course, a nice butt goes a long way, too."

"Mom," I begin with a groan, until I realize that I can't really argue with that. "All right, you've got a point. But, I don't… Look, I'll keep you posted, okay?" She laughs and I shake my head in amusement, feeling the blush on my cheeks. She can't resist teasing me, even though she knows there are some things I'm just not comfortable discussing with my parents. I wish I'd inherited more of her joie de vivre and less of Charlie's reticence. "So, tell me what you guys have been up to lately. Has the tourist train slowed down yet this year?"

"Hardly! We just approved the final drafts for the ads about our "Live in the Vineyard" November specials," she gushes, referring to the biannual music festival held in Napa each April and November. "You should see the packages we're putting together!"

I listen fondly as she prattles on about the coming season and the joys of being innkeepers, the sound of her voice soothing. It's heart-warming to know how happy they are.

My dad, Charlie, had grown up in a tiny town called Forks up in the rainiest part of Washington State. My Grandpa Swan had been a policeman, and dad followed in his footsteps. Sadly, Grandpa was killed on duty—a burglary arrest gone wrong—not too long after Dad joined the force, leaving him and Grandma alone. But, they weren't alone for long; a few months after the funeral, my free-spirited mother had wandered into the area as part of a nature retreat in the Hoh rainforest. Renee had dropped out of Berkeley in her senior year when a drunk driver had plowed into her parents' car, killing them instantly. Heartbroken, she turned to various spiritual remedies, searching for…something. Not even she knew exactly what she'd been looking for. But whatever it was, she had found it in my Dad.

For his part, Charlie had been smitten. Love at first sight, they tell me. Anyway, with Grandma Swan's blessing, he followed Mom back to her hometown of Half Moon Bay, just south of San Francisco, and joined the police force there. It had been a nice place to grow up.

Everyone knew that Grandma Swan was the Mary Kay queen of the Olympic Peninsula, but it wasn't until she'd passed away that we'd discovered just how lucrative eye shadow and lipstick could be. The inheritance the dear woman had left to my parents fulfilled their dream of owning a bed-and-breakfast in Napa, and provided a tidy, not-so-little trust fund for me. It allowed me to live comfortably in San Francisco and still be able to donate almost half my salary back to the Foundation. I had loved my grandmother dearly, and was thankful for her gifts every day.

"By the way, don't think I don't know what you did there, Isabella Marie," she says sternly, but with affection. "I let you distract me. But I want the full details about your firefighter when you come to visit!"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply crisply, giving a mock salute, before I let my voice soften. "Love you, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me."

"I love you, too, sweetie. Be safe."

I hit 'end' and sink back into the chair, taking a long sip of my wine and feeling more relaxed than I had all day. _Trust your instincts, Bella_. Smiling at my mother's wise words, my confidence resurges, and I rise to refill my glass. I know I made the right decision regarding Cullen. Besides, after today, I'll probably never see him again. Irina can handle it from here. Problem solved.

I'm just settling back into my chair with a full glass in my hand, and a financial report to read in my lap, when my phone chimes with a text. Expecting a note from Jessica, I take a big sip and, with my other hand, swipe my thumb across the screen to reveal the message…

…And spit my mouthful of pinot noir all over the neat rows of numbers marching across the page.

_Oh, for the love of…_ Cursing under my breath, I drop my phone and frantically dab at the stained papers with a napkin, my brain awhirl. I set the report aside with a groan over the mess I've made, and retrieve my phone to stare again in shock at the sexy, determined green eyes peering at me from over dark sunglasses, above the message, "_You want me to prove otherwise? Watch this space."_

After gaping at my phone, thunderstruck, baffled, and infuriatingly intrigued by the challenge implicit in his words, I wearily sink back into the soft leather and scrunch my eyes shut, my frustration escaping in a long, drawn out groan.

* * *

><p>Chapter End Notes:<p>

Determined now, isn't he?

You knew we'd have to through Eighties hair bands in here somewhere. Who's your favourite? Or better yet, who's the worst?

Up in two weeks, trying to turn over a new leaf in the city that never sleeps.

Twitter: LatteCoug ,CarLemon


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